Chapter Text
The night split open with the screech of at least twenty demons rushing in from the shadows. Three hulking ones moved among them like towers of bone and muscle, their glowing eyes sweeping the battlefield. The air was heavy with the metallic tang of demon energy.
Mira was the first to move. Her Gok-do swept in a perfect arc, elegant yet devastating. Each strike was precise but carried the weight of her full strength, slamming into a cluster of lesser demons and sending them scattering before they burst into clouds of deep violet hues. She pivoted with dancer-like grace, twisting her body in a low spin that cleared another path, the weapon’s reach catching three more at once. Smoke coiled around her like dark incense, but she barely paused, her breathing even.
Rumi was already deep in their ranks, her sword flashing with controlled ferocity. Every slash was intentional — cutting through limbs, severing tendons, driving clean through skulls. The moment the blade connected, the demons shattered into plumes of hot pink vapor that curled upward before vanishing. Her footwork was sharp, her momentum unstoppable. She ducked beneath a swipe from one of the bigger demons, sliding forward to cut through a lesser one that dared to block her path, never losing tempo.
Zoey came in like chaos itself. She vaulted off a crumbling wall, twisting midair to fling two Shin-kal with whip-crack precision. Both knives found their marks — one in the temple of a snarling demon, another in the gut of one trying to flank Mira — and both erupted before their bodies even hit the ground. She landed in a crouch, swept the legs out from under another, and pinned it in a headlock until Rumi finished it with a clean strike. Her movements had no pattern, no hesitation — only intent and deadly accuracy.
And on top of this whirlwind of flips, strikes, and perfectly timed dodges, their voices never wavered. Every lyric rolled out smooth and fierce, feeding the rhythm of their attacks. It wasn’t just a show of strength—it was their power source. As the fight dragged on, they slipped back into their old favorite, their go-to anthem: "How It’s Done." The melody cut through the chaos like a second set of blades, every note sharpening their movements, every harmony syncing their hearts in battle. The demons didn’t just face three fighters—they faced a full-blown performance.
The street was chaos. Purple and dark-pink plumes bloomed like fireworks, dissipating into the air with every blow. Mira’s lance, the gok-do, carved wide arcs that sent demons spinning, bodies bursting into curling smoke trails mid-flight. Rumi’s blade — the four tigers sword — gleamed with precise, surgical cuts, each movement efficient, intentional. And Zoey was everywhere at once, ricocheting off walls, diving under claws, hurling her knives in a rhythm that felt chaotic but landed with surgical certainty.
By now, only a couple demons remained — one small, twitching with erratic energy, and a hulking brute whose hunched shoulders nearly scraped the rusting street lamps. The brute’s skin steamed like boiling tar, its teeth clicking in a rhythm that made the pavement hum.
Rumi had the smaller one cornered, blade tip kissing its throat. One more push, and it would vanish.
“Wait,” it croaked, voice low and urgent, its black eyes wide, voice breaking.
“Wait—please. I just… need to talk.”
She froze
Rumi’s brow furrowed. “Talk? Now?”
“Rumi—” Mira’s voice cut like steel. “Don’t. Finish it.”
But the demon’s gaze held hers, steady despite the tremor in his voice. “If you kill me now, you’ll never know what we know—”
“I just want to hear what he has to say,” Rumi shot back, eyes never leaving the demon.
A tense beat — then Mira nodded once. “Fine.” She spun her gok-do, already lunging toward the big demon alongside Zoey. "We’ll handle the big one. Don’t take too long.”
“Last one,” Zoey grinned, knives flicking between her fingers. “If we hurry, we can get back to those videos before the popcorn’s stale.”
“Try not to miss the part where I do all the work,” Mira deadpanned, sidestepping a claw swipe.
The big demon’s roar split the air. It grabbed a rust-eaten sedan in one massive claw and hurled it.
“Car incoming!” Mira vaulted backwards, the metal wreck slamming into the asphalt where she’d been standing a heartbeat before. Her dodge left Zoey charging ahead alone, Shin-kal gleaming in both hands. Mira looked over the field and in a second made the choice. Her weapon flew and landed almost upright in a middle point between Rumi and Zoey.
"Stay here," Rumi commanded the small demon, her voice a sharp, urgent whisper before she exploded into motion. The air crackled with a barely contained energy as she launched herself forward. The cracked asphalt blurred beneath her feet as she hit the ground in a dead sprint, each stride propelled by the precisely timed aid from Mira, a surge of power that felt like a jolt of lightning through her veins.
She closed the gap just in time, her heart hammering against her ribs like a frantic drum. A monstrous claw, wreathed in shadow, descended towards Zoey's head with lethal intent. Rumi's blade flashed, a silver arc against the encroaching darkness, and met the claw in a shower of sparks. The clang of metal against bone echoed through the night, a violent, jarring sound. In a blink, the force of the blow was deflected, redirected, and together, Rumi and Zoey transitioned into a fluid, coordinated strike, years of training melding into a seamless dance of offense. But just as their combined attack reached its crescendo, the massive beast dissolved into a sudden, swirling vortex of dark pink smoke, leaving only the lingering scent of ozone and a disquieting silence.
Zoey, momentarily stunned, caught her breath, her chest heaving. A grin stretched across her face, a mixture of relief and adrenaline-fueled bravado. "See? I totally had it," she declared, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her bravado.
Rumi smirked, a playful glint in her eyes as she finally let her sword tip rest in the ground. "Sure. You’re welcome, by the way."
Zoey straightened, panting, eyes wide.
“Wow. My knight in shining armor,” she teased, voice still shaky.
Rumi smirked.
But the humor died with Mira’s scream.
“RUMI!”
Rumi whipped toward the sound—Mira’s voice to her left—but something flickered in the opposite corner of her vision.
And then came the sound.
A sound that wasn’t just pain, but soul-deep, blood-freezing agony.
Zoey’s voice.
Raw enough to make the hairs rise on Rumi’s arms.
Rumi’s head snapped back. Zoey lay crumpled, blood pooling dark against the cracked street. The small demon stood over her.
The world narrowed to red.
The air seemed to thicken, her vision rimmed in gold, every heartbeat thundering like a war drum.
Her demon half surged forward without permission. Claws slid into existence as naturally as breath. One fluid motion — a vicious grab — and she had the demon skewered through the torso. She slammed it into the pavement hard enough to spiderweb the asphalt. Its body bounced once. Before it could fall again, her blade was there, slicing through its neck with a clean, lethal sweep.
Purple smoke bloomed, curling around Rumi’s shoulders like a crown of fury.
Rumi stood frozen, chest heaving, claws dripping—not with blood, but with the faint shimmer of the demon’s residue. The world around her felt muffled, like sound couldn’t quite push through the ringing in her ears.
Then a ragged, pained gasp cut through it all.
“Rum—” Zoey’s voice was barely there, but it yanked her back to reality like a slap.
Rumi dropped to her knees beside her. Zoey’s skin was pale under the streetlights, her breaths shallow. The crimson pool beneath her was already too wide.
“Don’t—don’t move,” Rumi said quickly hearing the demonic undertones on her own voice, she did not let it distract her, not now. She was pressing both hands to the wound. She didn’t care if her claws scraped asphalt; all that mattered was stopping the bleeding.
Zoey twitched under the pressure, her face contorted with unbearable pain. But she bore it, clenching her jaw so tight it was a wonder her teeth didn’t crack, refusing to give it voice. Once she’d adjusted to the pain, she let out a weak, labored breath and gave Rumi a faint grin.
“What… no... lec-ture?” she whispered, the words barely audible.
“Shut up,” Rumi muttered, eyes unfocused like she wasn’t fully behind them. “Save your breath.”
“MIRA!” Rumi’s voice tore out of her, the honmoon reacting instantly.
Mira was there in seconds, skidding to her knees on Zoey’s other side. Her eyes swept the wound—sharp, calculating—before locking with Rumi’s.
“That’s deep. We move her now.”
Her gaze lingered on Rumi for just a moment. The demon half was more visible now than the first time she’d seen it. Were those… claws? She snapped back to the present, placing a hand on Zoey’s cheek. “You’re losing temperature fast.” In a quick move she stripped off her jacket and pressed it against the wound, Rumi's hands held steady and practiced, until mira was done securing it in place with the sleeves.
Zoey was too weak to answer—barely able to keep her eyes open—but she still managed a half-smile.
"CALL CELINE" Pink pulses expanded around the honmoon, undeniable proof that Rumi’s voice wasn't from this world. And the girls heavy breathing showed her breaking through that stoic immobile front she was still trying to hold.
A pair of claws started to crawl out of one of the spots weakened by Rumi's voice.
Mira noticed immediately and with a quick turn threw her weapon as a spear at the head of the demon peeking through the honmoon. The remanents curled in the air, twisting away into nothing as quickly as it had come.
"I am calling her.
You stay quiet.-" Mira’s tone was flat, controlled, as she stepped around Rumi and hit speed dial. “Zoey’s injured.
Serious.”
The word serious echoed in Rumi’s head as nodded, jaw tight, and without another word, she slid her arms under Zoey, lifting her with careful strength. Zoey hissed but didn’t resist. She couldn’t
“She’ll meet us there,” Mira said simply. No explanation was needed. They both knew exactly where to go: the same doctor who had patched them up after every wound… both theirs, and the Sunlight Sisters..
Rumi didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice.
___
The alley swallowed them in shadows as Mira led the way, Rumi close behind with Zoey in her arms. The city noise was distant here, muffled by narrow walls and the heavy thud of her own heartbeat in her ears. Three minutes? Five? She couldn’t tell. Each step stretched into an eternity, her arms burning from Zoey’s weight—not from strain, but from the fear of jostling her and making the pain worse. But the weight had grown heavier with each heartbeat, as if the world wanted to drag her down before she reached safety.
The neon sign above the nondescript door flickered—one last pulse of light before Mira shoved it open and waved her inside. The smell of antiseptic hit her like a wall. Doctor Kang was already there, snapping on gloves without a word, her nurse moving in perfect sync with her. They didn’t ask questions—never did.
“Here—lay her down.”
Rumi’s movements were slow, too careful, her muscles rigid from holding herself together.Zoey was barely conscious now, her lips pale, eyes lashes fluttered once before her eyes slipped shut. That was when something inside Rumi twisted—hard.
The doctor didn’t waste a second. She and the nurse rolled Zoey toward the big double doors at the end of the hall. Rumi stood frozen, watching until they were almost out of sight—
And then she saw her.
Celine.
She was leaning against the wall beside those double doors, the low light catching her in that way it always did—perfect posture, perfect composure, the type of stillness that felt heavier than motion. And those eyes… sharp, assessing, cutting through the dim like they had no business being that bright in a place this shadowed.
Rumi froze.
Instinct made her pull her hoodie tighter, hands buried deep in the sleeves, head ducked. But she could feel it—Celine wasn’t looking at her face. She was looking through her, past her, into her. Right at the thing she had fought so hard to hide.
And she knew—she knew—it was too late. Celine had already seen them.
Her eyes.
The demon-yellow glow that still hadn’t faded.
The hoodie couldn’t hide the fact that they were still faintly glowing, their unnatural hue lingering like an ember that refused to die out. She could almost feel the reflection of that light in Celine’s gaze, like being caught mid-act with no excuse ready.
Rumi felt her breath quicken. She wanted to turn away, to disappear into the cracked tile floor, but Celine didn’t blink, didn’t look anywhere else. There was no judgment in her face—just quiet, unnerving calculation.
And somehow, that was worse.
A pulse of shame rose hot in Rumi’s chest. The memory of the fight flashed behind her eyes: the moment she’d lost control, the way the demon had slipped through her like black oil through water, spilling into her muscles, her mind. She’d welcomed it for that heartbeat. Wanted it.
Rumi shrank back further, nails digging into her palms through the fabric. If she made herself small enough, maybe she could vanish into the folds of the hoodie, into the wall, into anywhere but here.
Celine’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. The weight of her silence pressed heavier than any accusation.
Somewhere behind those double doors, a monitor beeped, sharp and rhythmic. It should have been grounding. Instead, it felt like a countdown.
And Rumi knew—whether Celine said it aloud or not—she’d just seen too much, she could tell by the way her jaw was visibly clench.
Notes:
(Technically goes after the last chapter of "After the spotlight" but with how much I let the intrusive thoughts win here I figured I will publish separately.
You do not need to read that one to understand this one.
That being said I recomend reading the other one as it is referenced)
Chapter 2: The rock.
Summary:
Like tides of dread, fear crashes, briefly leaving a fragile hope before the next wave hits.
Will they stand unmoved?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Celine moved toward Rumi with slow, deliberate steps.
Rumi looked like a cornered puppy—wide-eyed, shoulders drawn tight, bracing for something Mira couldn’t name. But the sight hit her gut like a warning. She stepped forward, placing herself between them, hands buried deep in her pockets. No sudden moves. No reason to make this worse.
Celine didn’t even glance at her. She walked past like Mira wasn’t there.
Behind her, Mira caught the faintest gasp—Rumi turning her head away, shoulders curling inward. Celine’s hand lifted. Mira’s muscles locked, heart thudding hard against her ribs, ready to block whatever came next.
But instead, Celine’s arm wrapped around Rumi, pulling her into a tight, almost desperate hug.
For two or three stunned seconds, Rumi stayed rigid. Then the dam broke—she clung to Celine, trembling, tears slipping hot down her cheeks.
“I’m so glad… you’re safe,” Celine murmured.
Only then did Mira notice—the tears running down Celine’s own face.
Her mentor. The unshakable mountain. Crying.
Mira stared. Rumi was a mess, Celine was cracked open, and somehow she was the only one still standing. She didn’t know the story between them, but she knew her role: be steady. For both of them. For all of them.
She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
The three of them moved toward the chairs, eyes fixed on the double doors ahead.
The hallway stank faintly of antiseptic and blood. The overhead lights hummed, too loud in the heavy stillness. Muffled voices came and went beyond the doors. Somewhere down the hall, a metal tray clattered against tile.
When Mira glanced back, Celine’s face was stone again—so still she wondered if she’d imagined that crack.
Rumi, though… Rumi was unraveling. Her hands curled tight, nails digging into her palms. Two burning yellow eyes had replaced her human ones. Her breathing came fast and jagged, each inhale sounding like pain held in a vise.
“You should… clean yourself. It will help,” Celine said quietly.
Rumi gave a small nod, gaze unfocused.
“I’ll take her,” Mira said.
She got Rumi to her feet and guided her to the bathroom. The fluorescent light was harsh, bouncing off pale tile. Their hands—both of them—were still stained with Zoey’s blood, dark and crusted in the lines of their skin.
Mira turned on the tap. Water hissed into the basin. She took Rumi’s hands first, guiding them under the stream, rubbing gently until the water swirled pink down the drain.
Rumi started shaking harder.
Mira frowned—then spotted a thin line of blood trailing from Rumi’s mouth. She was biting her tongue, hard. Too hard. Mira followed her gaze to a bracelet on her wrist—Jinu’s bracelet—its threads smeared with Zoey’s blood.
“Let me take care of that,” Mira said, reaching.
Rumi yanked her arm back, eyes pleading but silent—too afraid, Mira guessed, of saying anything that might call up more demons.
“I promise I’ll hold onto it,” Mira said, voice steady. Slowly, firmly, she slid it from Rumi’s wrist. She knew what it meant—the hope Jinu had given her, the connection she didn’t quite name. Rumi had told her before. But now… it was also a wound. A trigger.
Once the blood was gone from Rumi’s skin, the half-demon girl seemed a little calmer.
Mira washed her own hands next. The water still ran pink, then finally clear, but her chest wouldn’t unclench. Zoey’s blood.
If Zoey didn’t make it—
Stop.
She braced her palms against the counter. Not the time. She’s strong. She’ll make it.
But the thought wouldn’t stick. The image of Zoey bleeding on the floor flashed again and again, tightening her chest. You’re the rock, Mira. For her. For Celine. For everyone.
She blinked hard, shook the water from her fingers, reached for paper towels.
Her pulse spiked. What if she doesn’t wake up?
What if that was the last time—
She gripped the sink’s edge, forcing her gaze to her reflection. Not the blood. Not the memory. Just her eyes.
Breathe.
You can’t fall apart now.
Rumi stood beside her, silent, moving like a ghost. In the mirror’s edge, her yellow eyes still glowed faintly. She wasn’t fighting anymore. She wasn’t anything at all. Just... empty
Mira took one more breath, deep enough to steady her voice.
“You’re okay. We’re okay. Zoey’s not—” She stopped. Couldn’t give the word shape.
She shut off the tap. Let the silence stay. The only truth she could carry was this: Zoey’s still here.
“Come on,” she said, sounding calmer than she felt. “Let’s get back.”
When they reached the chairs, Celine stood.
“They gave us an update. The internal damage is worse than they expected. They want us to know it’s going to be a long surgery.”
Her voice held steady—or tried to. Mira noticed her knuckles whitening, arms locked tight across her chest.
Rumi just nodded and sat down. She looked mechanical, hollow.
Mira forced her own fear down and turned to Celine.“When Rumi… when she raised her voice… the Honmoon—” She faltered, unsure how to explain. Especially to Celine—the mentor who had drilled into them that their faults and fears must never be seen.
“Flickered? Tore? Broke?” Celine asked, impatience cutting through her words.
Mira blinked, surprised she already knew, and relieved she didn’t have to say it.
“It tore. A demon slipped through while we were tending Zoey’s wound.” Mira’s voice sank lower.
“I told Rumi to stay quiet. I couldn’t fight and help her at the same time.” It came out almost like an apology.
“I was wondering why she hasn’t said a word. Thought maybe she was freezing me out—or traumatized… This is slightly better.”
The word slightly sounded like it had been forged from glass instead of spoken.
Celine knelt in front of Rumi, cupping her cheek.
Tears welled instantly, and for a moment, behind them, her eyes looked human again.
“I’m worried too.” Celine shrugged off her jacket and draped it over the trembling girl’s shoulders.
“Rumi. You can talk now. Between the three of us, we can handle it if we have to.”
Rumi’s gaze darted between Celine, Mira, and the room around them. Mira saw the fear behind her hesitation. She sat beside her—offering nothing but presence.
Or the appearance of it.
“…Are you sure?” Rumi’s whisper was fragile, measured, uncertain.
Mira’s lips parted—
Celine cut in before a word escaped.
“Hiding it will only make it worse. You taught me that.”
Her gaze slid to Rumi.
“And if I have to slay a couple demons so you can feel better, Rumi… then let it be.”
Celine stood like she owned the air around her—effortless, lethal elegance. But Mira could read the tremor hiding in the spaces between her words.
Rumi exhaled, a breath wrapped in relief.
“She has to be okay,” she murmured, almost as if praying to no one in particular.
“She’s stronger than she looks,” Mira replied, forcing her eyes to stay locked on the double doors. Her thoughts wanted to spiral into dark, unspeakable places, but she caged them shut—until Rumi’s hand tightened over hers, pulling her back.
For a second, Mira feared her struggle had shown through.
But no—Rumi’s grip wasn’t for Mira’s sake.
It was to keep herself from shattering. Her claws were gone now; only the fully spread violet patterns remained, glowing faintly against her skin.
The silence was thick enough to choke on—
until Dr. Kang stepped in.
“You may not agree with this,” She said, her voice a careful cut through the tension, “but as a doctor, I didn’t have a choice.”
The air pressed down harder. Mira felt Rumi’s fingers tense over hers, bracing for impact. She thought—no, she knew—she heard Celine gasp.
“The ambulance is on its way,” Kang continued. “She needs care I can’t give her here—a multidisciplinary surgical team, an ICU for recovery between the procedures.”
“Procedures?!” Rumi shot to her feet—then crumpled, her legs failing her. “More than one?” Her voice cracked, eyes pleading with Mira for something—anything.
Mira's hands went cold.
She saw Rumi looking for her.
But her body betrayed her.
She couldn’t meet Rumi’s gaze, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.
She just… froze, eyes wide, as if the wrong breath would break her. Her ears roared.
Celine stepped into the space Mira couldn’t fill.
“You’ll be part of that team, right?” Her tone wasn’t a question—it was a dare.
“Yes. And I’ve made sure she’s stable enough to transport,” Kang assured.
“Then we’ll trust you,” Celine said, every syllable sharpened. “Even if we wouldn’t usually allow it.”
And then the sirens began to bleed into Mira’s ears, warping the room into a blur.
“I’ll go with her,” Mira said—finally moving forward.
Notes:
I find hard to get Miras voice. So I thought making this from her POV was a good excersice.
Hope you like it.
"To be like the rock that the waves keep crashing over. It stands unmoved and the rage of the sea falls still around it." — Marcus Aurelius
Chapter Text
The tower’s living room was quiet except for the soft hiss of the teapot. Steam curled above two cups waiting on the table.
Rumi stared at it—two cups. They should have been three. That absence sat heavier than the silence.
Celine paced slowly, phone on speaker. Mira’s voice came through, thin and tired.
“She’s out of the first surgery.”
Relief tried to rise in Rumi’s chest, but it was too cautious, too fragile to take root. “Out” didn’t mean safe.
“And?…” Celine’s reply was clipped, but Rumi could hear the tremor hiding under it.
She recognized that tremor—it was the same one in her own voice when she was trying not to sound like she was about to break.
““They found hemothorax—” Mira’s voice was flat, like she was reading a chart.
Rumi’s brain lagged, but her body understood.
Chest filling with blood. Can’t breathe.
A flash—Zoey mid-verse, lungs unstoppable.
"Cardiac tamponade—”
Heart trapped. Can’t beat.
Debut night—Zoey grabbing Rumi’s hand, pressing it to her chest. “I thought my heart was gonna pop out!”
“—and severe internal bleeding.”
Blood loss. Hard to live.
Zoey clenching her jaw in agony and then giving Rumi a faint grin.
“What… no... lec-ture?” whispered.
Oh gosh.
Each diagnosis felt like a hand dragging Zoey under.
Rumi’s mind spun.
Three major threats.
With Zoey as weak as she’d been… every second they needed to fix her was another second Zoey had to survive.
She shut her eyes tight, praying Zoey could hang on.
“They intervened on the heart, right?” Celine’s voice cracked, her fingers white-knuckled on the couch back.
Rumi’s gaze slipped to Zoey’s spot on the couch. She could almost see her grinning there.
“Yes… but she’d lost so much blood they could only aspirate the fluid,” Mira said.
Aspirate. Not fix.
Bailing water from a sinking ship, hoping it doesn’t rush back in.
“They patched the arteries as much as they could.”
Rumi pictured hands deep inside Zoey, clamping, sealing, leaving other leaks for later. Duct tape over a cracked pipe.
Another silence, heavier this time.
The kind you didn’t want to break, because you knew the next words wouldn’t be good.
“They need her stronger,” Mira’s voice cracked, “before they go in again.”
Rumi’s nails bit into her palms. Stronger meant she had to make it through the night. Through the next hours. Through every minute that felt like a cliff edge.
“If they need blood, let me know. I’m a match,” Celine said immediately.
Rumi almost smiled at the speed of it—Celine’s reflex to give, to fix, to protect.
“Sure. I have to go—they should let me see her soon.” Mira hung up.
Celine stared at the floor, but her eyes were unfocused—somewhere far away.
Rumi had never been able to read her this clearly. The woman who raised her… shaken, vulnerable. That scared her more than any diagnosis.
“Celine…” Rumi’s voice was soft, hesitant.
She almost didn’t want to break the moment, afraid her voice would shatter it into something worse.
Celine looked at her but didn’t speak.
“I’m scared.” Rumi’s voice caught. Her eyes were red and swollen, but she thought she’d run out of tears hours ago. The patterns still glowed across her skin—reminders she wasn’t entirely herself right now.
Celine stepped close, she seemed to hesitate , but wrapped her in a hug. “I am too, Rumy.” The words were measured, like saying them cost her.
Rumi froze for a heartbeat, then let herself lean into it. She wasn’t sure if she was drawing strength or just trying not to collapse.
“When I recruited her, she was so excited,” Celine murmured. “Part of it was me being one of her idols… She was so eager to belong, she would’ve jumped into a volcano if I’d asked.”
Rumi tensed at the thought—Zoey throwing herself into danger for someone she admired. She’d done that for Rumi, too.
“When I saw how much she wanted to help, I promised myself I’d keep her pure, innocent soul safe.” Celine’s voice broke, just slightly.
Rumi felt her own breath stutter. She’d never heard that promise spoken aloud, but she’d seen it in Celine’s actions. Always.
“And then that young girl became a powerful woman. Talented idol. Strong hunter. Probably better than I ever was. All three of you were, actually. And I thought… I’d never have to worry again.” Her eyes locked on Rumi. “And then you… and now Zoey…”
The weight in her voice crushed Rumi’s chest.
Tears slipped down Celine’s face.
Rumi slowly reached for her hand, giving her the chance to pull away. She didn’t.
“It was my fault,” Rumi whispered, the confession burning in her throat.
It felt like swallowing glass to say it, but she couldn’t carry it alone anymore.
“How?” Celine’s voice sharpened. She only knew what Mira had told her—a demon ambushed Zoey.
Rumi flinched at the edge in her tone but pushed forward.
“It asked—begged—to talk. And I listened. Then I ran to back Zoey up and left it behind. Took it off our radar. And then… we were caught off guard. She wasn’t ready. Because of me.”
Her hands trembled, fear and rage starting to curl inside her again.
“You didn’t get to hear what it wanted to say, did you?” Celine asked.
“Not everything.”
“Think it mattered?” Celine’s gaze drifted to the city lights outside.
Rumi’s eyes stayed forward, unreadable. “…It does now.”
“You didn’t hurt Zoey,” Celine said. She stood, picking up her tea cup and moving toward the window. Processing.
Rumi wanted to believe her. But the words slid right off the guilt sitting in her chest.
Rumi’s phone rang. She expected Mira—but the name froze her.
“Hi, Bobby.”
“Where are you? Fans photographed Mira at a hospital. She’s not answering, neither is Zoey.”
Rumi’s stomach knotted. “…Zoey…” She couldn’t make herself say more.
Celine crossed the room and took the phone. She’d heard everything—how could she not, in the silence they’d been sitting in?
“Zoey had an accident while practicing a new stunt,” Celine said evenly. “She’s seriously injured. Mira’s with her. Please refrain from contacting them—you may call me instead.”
“Zoey is hurt?” Bobby’s voice was thick with concern.
“Bobby…” Rumi’s voice cracked, tears threatening again.
“Rumi’s okay. I’ll help however I can. Let me talk to the team—we’ll arrange a private space for you at the hospital, get a statement for the pub—”
Celine switched the phone off speaker and walked away with it, handling Bobby.
Rumi clenched her jaw. She couldn’t care less about a public statement. She only cared about one thing—her perfectly chaotic maknae.
Laughter—loud, choking, wheezy.
Zoey’s eyeliner smudged, eyes crinkled.
Alive. So alive—
Hospital beeps.
Sharp. Cold.
Zoey at 2 a.m., pacing with a notebook.
Hair everywhere.
Half-formed rhymes spilling too fast for the pen—
Sterile corridors.
Too bright. Too empty.
Lyrics on napkins.
Her voice slicing through a studio haze.
The smell of energy drinks—
Antiseptic.
Metal.
Ridiculous hat she refused to take off—
Mask.
Oxygen tube.
Rumi’s breath stuttered.
Her chest clamped until she swore her ribs would splinter.
Zoey who lit up rooms—
Zoey lying still in one.
No.
She grabbed the thought and squeezed, like she could crush it out of existence.
Clung to the only thing that didn’t feel like drowning—
Zoey was stubborn.
Impossible.
Unkillable.
She had to be.
Rumi held onto that belief like it was oxygen,
like the ground beneath her would vanish if she let go.
Celine came back after a couple minutes and sat beside Rumi on the couch.
“That’s all taken care of,” she said, her voice smooth again.
“Thank you,” Rumi murmured, her voice shrinking.
Celine looked composed now—elegant, still, untouchable. The kind of composure Rumi had seen her slip into a hundred times before. She found herself wondering if Celine ever really came out of that mode… or if it was just another skin she never took off.
“You’re staring, Rumi.” Celine’s tone was steady.
“S- sorry.” Rumi looked away quickly, heat prickling under her skin. With Celine’s earlier vulnerability locked back up, talking to her felt harder—like the air between them had thickened. A shadow of hurt lingered in her chest.
“I’m sorry, Rumi,” Celine said quietly. Her hands wrapped so tightly around her tea cup that Rumi half-expected the porcelain to crack.
“What are you sorry for?” Rumi asked, her voice measured as she took a slow sip of her own tea.
“I was wrong. “Her gaze flicked away, then back. " I should have been a better guardian for you."
She looked at her tea but Rumi could tell her whole attention was on her, like waiting for an answer that was not going to arrive.
"I love you. And… I’d be lying if I said the patterns don’t still make me a little uncomfortable-"
Rumi shifted in her seat, feeling the tea cooling in her hands. Forcing herself to listen to Celine.
"-But I’m learning to unlearn everything I thought I knew. Because you changed the way I see the world, Rumi.” Celine's eyes looked for hers.
Rumi froze.
This was the same woman who’d taught her, piece by piece, to be ashamed of what she was. Now Celine was asking her to believe she could see her differently.
It was a big step for Celine, she knew that. But Rumi couldn’t stop the quiet voice in her head:
Do I even deserve to be accepted?
Her silence stretched between them.
“I just wanted to say that,”
Celine continued softly. She placed the tea cup down and took a deep breath.
“If you would rather have me out of your life… just tell me.”
Rumi could hear her heart breaking as she said it.
“Do you see my mom when you look at me?”
Rumi asked at last, eyes fixed on her tea instead of Celine. Her patterns glowed brightly across her skin—dangerous, undeniable. If she didn’t ask now, when would she?
“Yes,” Celine admitted without hesitation.
The answer hit like a knife to the gut. A replacement. A living ghost of someone else. Rumi placed her tea down holding her breath.
“And no,” Celine added, her body tensing like she was bracing for impact.
“You look like her—a lot. But your personality is very different. You also just… look like Rumi. You have that soft smile when you’re around Mira and Zoey, and that fierce glare when you fight. You’re so confident on stage.”
Rumi’s throat tightened. Had Celine really been watching her all these years?
“You have a unique expression when you’re determined. To learn a choreography. To protect your friends. To save us all.”
Celine raise a hand to Rumi’s face, it shook and the fingers twisted a little, but finally she couped it holding her gaze.
“That’s my favorite expression. You remind me of Mi-Yeong, but you are not Mi-Yeong. You are you, Rumi. And I love you.”
The dam inside Rumi broke. She threw her arms around Celine and sobbed into her shoulder—loud, messy, and unrestrained. But somewhere in the middle of it, the tears felt less like falling apart and more like something healing.
The faint smell of Celine's perfume made her feel like a small child in her adoptive mother's arms again.
And slowly… the glowing patterns began to fade.
Notes:
Hope you made it through the end without a panic attack of your own.
Chapter 4: Trapped
Summary:
Zoey tries not to slip under.
Notes:
This was hard to write.
Shorter than usual but you will see why.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"Last one!"
I could already taste the popcorn waiting for us back home. “If we hurry, we can get back to those videos before it’s stale,” I said, twirling my knives like I was showing off at a circus.
“Try not to miss the part where I do all the work,” Mira shot back, because of course she did.
Then the big ugly roared—loud enough to rattle my teeth—and threw a car. Like, full-on grabbed a rusty sedan and yeeted it. Too bad he missed. I’m faster than that, and I was coming for him.
I barely caught the blur of Rumi’s blade before it slammed into a massive claw that was about to rearrange my skull. Sparks flew—literal sparks—and for half a second, we moved together like we’d been training for this moment forever. Then—poof. The demon vanished in this gross, pinkish smoke, smelling like someone burned candy.
I stood there, chest heaving, trying to look cooler than I felt. “See? I totally had it,” I said, voice maybe shaking a little.
Rumi gave me that smirk. “Sure. You’re welcome.”
“Wow. My knight in shining armor,” I teased. Looking at that smirk. My reward for a job well done.
Then Mira screamed Rumi’s name.
I didn’t even get to see—
Before—
Pain.
Not normal pain. Not “stub your toe” pain.
This was fire under my ribs, ice in my veins, and every nerve screaming all at once.
My legs gave out before I knew they were going.
I hit the street hard.
The asphalt was cold under my cheek, or maybe I was just losing heat.
There was… too much wetness.
Sticky.
Warm.
My chest was tight.
The small demon was standing over me, shadow blotting out the streetlights—then it wasn’t. There was a blur of claws and movement and the sound of something hitting the ground hard. I couldn’t lift my head to follow, but I caught purple smoke curling in my peripheral.
Every breath hurt like sharp knives stabbing me from the inside. Blades trying to cut free out of my chest.
I didn’t understand. I couldn’t move. My head felt… quiet. Unusually quiet.
"Rum—" I tried to call but my lungs gave up. The crushing pressure kept growing in my chest.
I felt like I was slipping away.
Like falling asleep.
Then Rumi was right there, pressing her hands to my side. I flinched—couldn’t help it—because the pressure lit up every nerve I had left.
“Don’t—don’t move,” she said. Her voice sounded… different. Low. Rough. But she was focused, and I wasn’t gonna argue.
I pushed myself to keep my face from showing how bad it hurt. Bit down, hard, until my teeth ached. Breathed. Adjusted.
Finally, I cracked a tiny grin, even if my lips felt numb. “What… no… lec-ture?”
Defuse.
Make her laugh.
Take that painful expression away from her face.
Come on, Zoey.
Help her.
Do something.
Be enough.
I couldn’t. No matter how hard I tried.
Even when Mira wrapped that jacket around me, or Rumi picked me up.
The pain was intoxicating.
So overwhelming.
And yet so distant.
Like I wasn’t in my own body.
Like the heat over my skin wasn’t from my own blood.
Like I was watching this… movie.
And the colors started to blend.
Rumi held me tight against her chest. She was being so careful. Did I fall asleep on the couch again?
The smells were weak.
Mira made my favorite ramyeon. But wait—the popcorn was… was…?
The sounds replaced by this loud beeeep.
Beeep
Beep
Beep
Where was I? Why was it cold and bright? So quiet. Smelled like sanitizer. “-…is… unrespon—”
Three—Two—One—“And live!”
The host spoke, “You see my head bobbing? Tell us about that new single.”
“‘Golden.’ It’s the story of us.”
“It’s a song about who we are, and where we’re going next.”
Mira and Rumi spoke. Sunlight hitting my skin. It was my turn now. “… live performance is toni—”
Rumi’s chair was empty.
Fast—too fast—Rumi? Mira? Whe—clang!
My knives hit the target. I landed and looked around. I am panting loud, it's hot. Celine giving me a “good job.”
I did it again.
I looked around. She wasn’t there.
My knife melted through my fing—
No, wait—panting—the metronome ticking in my ears—
The studio booth.
Me dumping my heart into that last verse.
I could see Mira’s smirk and Rumi’s big smile through the window.
I blushed, my face is hot.
I’m killing it.
I’ll make them prou—
Just one more vers—my knees burn—the clicking of the wood—
The campfire. I couldn’t feel the heat.
I’m soaked.
I can’t move.
My skateboard broken, no! They threw the pieces in the fire. The cracklin—
Stop. Please—The tiny red light flicking—the fire alarm beeped—
And I looked at it.
If I pulled it my parents were going to ground me forever.
But if I didn’t… if I didn’t they’d dunk my head in the toilet until I couldn’t breathe. And throw me in a locker with my notebooks, the ones they ruined.
I pulled it.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep
My chest was on fire. Like a wave going in and out.
“Clear.”
Zaap!
Another wave of burning current through my chest.
Wait. It hurt.
I wanted to scream but I couldn’t.
“Resume.”
Wait. I felt it.
My bones cracking.
My whole body shaking under the rhythmic pressure in my chest.
Beep—crackling- metronome —clang—count down-my phone alarm.
Mira asked me to help her with the new choreography.
Rumi wanted to hear my new song.
Don’t disappoint them. Don’t ever let them down.
Beep
Beep
Beep
“Wake up, Zoey.”
Why can’t I wake up?
Rumi?
Mira?
Please—
Notes:
Was it hard to read?.
I think I broke my own heart.Comfort is coming.
Chapter 5: Stable
Chapter Text
The call came sooner than either of them expected.
A single sentence from Mira—
“Something went… wrong.”
—was all it took for Celine and Rumi to rush to the hospital.
They crossed the automatic doors, the sterile scent hitting them in a wave, and were met by a nurse who led them through quiet hallways. Bobby had made arrangements: a patient room converted into a private waiting area.
Close enough to the surgical department for instant updates from the doctors.
Far enough from the general waiting room to keep strangers’ eyes away.
When the door opened, Mira was there—sitting in the window frame, head resting against one bent knee. She looked fragile in a way neither of them had ever seen. Weak enough, it seemed, for the wind to knock her over.
Rumi dragged her feet into the room, the air so thick it refused to enter her lungs.
Celine looked collected. Elegant. Calm. But the truth was colder—she’d slipped into her professional skin, burying every feeling. It was the only way she knew how to survive moments like this.
Her mind kept pulling her back to another room, years ago—two other hunters gasping for air as the third gave her last breath. They had broken. She had broken. And she would not let Mira and Rumi break the same way.
“What’s the situation?” Celine asked, voice even.
“Her heart stopped.” Mira forced the words out like shoving glass through her throat. “They rushed her to surgery.”
Rumi froze.
Words gone.
Thoughts gone.
All that filled her mind was an image—Zoey’s weak grin smeared with blood, slipping away but still trying to smile for her.
Celine felt her legs threatening to give way but refused to let them. “How long has it been?”
“Twenty-three minutes.” Mira didn’t hesitate. She’d been counting each second, eyes locked on the clock as if sheer will could rewind it. But her body was past exhaustion, her head too heavy to hold up. This wasn’t control—this was detachment. She couldn’t feel anything anymore.
Rumi pressed one hand to her chest and caught the bedframe with the other. Even that wasn’t enough—her knees gave, though she lowered herself in a controlled fall.
“If she were gone,” Celine said carefully, “they would’ve already told us.” Not a comforting thought—but it was better than where their minds were heading.
Mira and Rumi exchanged a glance. Both saw the same bleak world reflected back—colorless, joyless, silent. A world without Zoey.
“There has to be something we can do. Anything!” Rumi’s voice cracked, and for a fleeting instant, it warped into something darker. She dropped her gaze—her marks hadn’t fully taken over. No claws, no burning yellow eyes. Just raw pain and despair.
Mira’s reply was blunt, cutting. “Either control yourself, or disappear. I don’t have time for this.”
The blow landed in Rumi’s chest. Shame flushed hot. Her heartbeat was loud enough to hear. Her arms itched with that crawling, molten need to lash back.
“Hey.” Celine’s tone was soft but steady, cutting through the tension like a steady hand on the shoulder. “Not here. Not now. We stay calm. We wait.”
Celine’s hand lifted, as if she could steer the conversation away from the cliff—but neither of them looked at her.
“How…” Rumi’s voice cracked. “did Zoey look?”
Mira’s voice softened, but the words were knives.
“She’s got so many machines tied to her she doesn’t even look like herself anymore.”
A breath caught in her throat. “It’s like they’re keeping a stranger alive.”
Silence. Heavy. Unmoving.
She doesn’t look like herself anymore.
The phrase lodged under Rumi’s ribs and stayed there.
Celine’s back was to them as she grabbed a water bottle, but the shadow on her face was for herself—a memory of another room, another young voice saying she doesn’t look like herself anymore.
Hours bleed away, each minute the weight pressing against their chest grew.
The silence in the private waiting room wasn’t the peaceful kind—it was the type that gnawed.
Mira hadn’t moved from the window frame except to check the hallway at the sound of every footstep.
Rumi sat on the floor, knees pulled up, chin buried in the hollow between them.
Celine stayed near the door, spine straight, arms crossed—not because she wasn’t tired, but because sitting felt too close to giving in.
Hours crawled, stubborn as gravity
The walls didn’t feel like walls anymore—just white noise pressing in.
Rumi had counted the same twenty ceiling tiles so many times she could’ve drawn them from memory.
Mira hadn’t moved, but was now holding both knees against her chest.
When the knock came, none of them breathed.
The door opened, every muscle in Rumi’s body locked.
It wasn’t Zoey. It was Dr. Kang.
Still in her surgical cap, she stepped inside with the gravity of someone who’d been holding life in her hands. Still in scrubs, her mask tugged down to hang loose around her neck. Her hair was damp with sweat, her eyes glassy with the kind of fatigue that came from too many hours on adrenaline.
“We brought her back,” she said without preamble. Her voice was low, almost hoarse, but there was no mistaking the anchor in it. “Her heart’s stable now.”
Rumi’s head jerked up so fast her hair followed the motion like a wave. She searched her expression like she didn’t believe the words had been real. “Stable?”
“Yes.” She nodded once. “She’s unconscious and still in critical condition. Her heart’s beating on its own now. She’s stable, but the next twenty-four hours are critical. We’ll keep her under close monitoring.”
Mira’s breath left her in one long, shaky exhale. She pressed her forehead into her knee again, but this time it wasn’t to hide—it was to keep herself from unraveling in front of doctor Kang.
Celine didn’t flinch, didn’t move, but her hand pressed tighter against her arm. “Can we see her?”
“Not yet. She’s still under heavy monitoring.” Kang’s gaze moved between the three of them. " I'll keep you posted." She gave a polite bow and left.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
It wasn’t relief, exactly.
More like pulling your head above water only to see the waves still rising.
A gag sound came from the corner of the room. Mira had tightened her throat so hard she almost made herself throw up.
Celine’s voice softened, measured again. “Mira, how are you?”
There was a pause just long enough to tell Rumi that Mira had considered lying.
“I’m tired. That’s all.”
Celine’s brows knit. “ICUs have strict visiting hours. If they’re not letting us in, there’s no point in you sitting here, exhausted, outside the door.”
“I can’t leave her,” Mira showed no hesitation, no wavering—like the sentence itself was a physical barricade she’d throw herself against before letting it crumble.
Rumi’s throat tightened. She didn’t know if she wanted to hug Mira or shake her for running herself ragged.
But she knew that tone.
It was the same one she used when someone suggested she back down from a fight she’d already decided she couldn’t lose.
Celine didn’t let the silence grow teeth.
“Mira,” Voice calm but edged, “there are three of us. You hear me? Three. You don’t have to be the whole wall by yourself.”
Mira didn’t answer right away. Rumi could hear the low hum of hospital machines in the background, the echo of distant footsteps, and Mira’s brain trying to put together an argument strong enough to stay.
“You’ll burn out before she even opens her eyes,” Celine pressed. “We’ll take turns at the clinic. One of us with her at all times until she’s out of ICU. And when she’s moved to a room?” Her voice gentled, threading steel into kindness. “Then you can park yourself there twenty-four-seven if that’s what you need. But right now, you need rest.”
“I—” Mira started, but her voice snagged, catching on the kind of emotion she never liked anyone to see.
“You’re not handing her over,” Celine continued before Mira could retreat. “You’re letting us carry the weight with you. That’s the only way this works.”
Rumi’s grip on her own knees tightened. She wanted to blurt out that she’d take the next shift, that she could run the whole night without so much as blinking. But she also knew she couldn’t trust herself to be alone if something went wrong. What if she ...snapped again?
On the line, Mira finally let out a shaky breath. “But if anything—”
“—we’ll call you,” Celine finished for her. “Immediately. No hesitation.”
Another pause, smaller this time. “Okay,” Mira said, and it was quiet, like she’d just handed over something sharp she’d been gripping too long.
“Then I’ll be next,” Celine sentenced, no room for argument in her tone. “You two need to rest. If I get any update—if something changes—” her voice flexed but didn’t crack, “or if she wakes up…” The last words slipped out like a prayer, quiet but deliberate. “I’ll get you here immediately.”
Mira’s jaw worked, the muscles ticking, but she finally gave a slow nod. She could hide the worst of her exhaustion—most people wouldn’t notice the slump in her shoulders or the glassy film over her eyes—but Celine wasn’t most people.
“Fine,” It was the kind of fine that wasn’t fine at all.
Rumi kept her gaze low, afraid that if she met Mira’s eyes she’d see her own guilt reflected there.
Fear pushed at her like it wanted to burst the door wide open—to run, to demand to stay, to fight the decision—but she held it tight, sealing it away with the same fragile hope that Zoey would recover.
Hope was the only thing keeping her still.
---
When it was time to go, Mira was the first to move.
Rumi stayed frozen in the chair, her fingers gripping the fabric like it could anchor her here.
Celine came to her side, kneeling so their eyes were level.
Her tone was warm but steady—the way you’d speak to someone teetering on the edge.
“She’s still fighting. That means we keep fighting too.”
Rumi’s lip trembled, but she nodded, letting Celine’s hand rest briefly over hers before she pulled away.
The duo made their way out slowly. Like waiting one more second meant Zoey will catch up with them.
Mira had dents in the shape of her own fingers and marks in the shape of her own nails, in the inside of her hands by now.
Rumi looked back one last time. The thought she’d been avoiding all night pressed in again:
If Zoey had died in there… what would I be now?
Her jaw clenched. She didn’t like the answer.
Chapter 6: Intrusive notes
Summary:
What happens when Mira's and Rumi’s coping mechanisms clash?
Notes:
Strongly recomend reading "After the spotlight" before continuing this series.
Chapter Text
Mira and Rumi had agreed that it would be impossible for either of them to sleep.
Too much adrenaline.
Too much uncertainty.
The ride home, the elevator, even walking in had been automatic — like their bodies were moving without their minds behind them.
And yet, every time their eyes closed, an unspoken tension grew heavier.
A quiet “You should… clean yourself. It will help,” in Celine’s voice floated through the air. Neither could remember who had actually suggested it, but they’d agreed to shower and change.
The blood was gone from their skin. The stain under it wasn’t.
---
Rumi sat on her bed, finishing her braid. Jeans, oversized hoodie. Not the most pajama-like choice, but good enough if they needed to rush back.
Her head wouldn’t stop spiraling.
The doctor’s voice replayed — “She’s stable.” Stable was good. Stable meant alive. Stable meant they still had a chance.
But the images came anyway — Zoey going limp, her blood soaking everything, the weak grin she’d given before darkness swallowed her. The fear kept trying to convince her that “stable” could change in seconds.
And somewhere under it all, guilt twisted like a knife. If she had been faster. If she had been stronger. If she had been better… Zoey wouldn’t have been hurt in the first place.
A knock on her door pulled her out of the loop.
“Come in,” she said.
Mira stepped inside, sweater and leggings.
“That’s yours.” She tossed something onto the bed.
The bracelet. Still damp from washing. Most of the blood was gone. Not all.
Rumi stared at it. For a moment she saw Jinu’s face from the day she got it. Then Zoey’s blood sliding down her hands, staining the threads. She looked away, pain raw on her face. A soft groan escaped before she forced herself to meet Mira’s eyes again.
“…Thanks.”
Mira didn’t answer right away. She studied Rumi in silence, her gaze cool, measuring. She read every flicker — the guilt, the self-pity, the way Rumi avoided the bracelet like it burned. Mira’s jaw tightened.
“You wear your guilt like it’s going to help her,” she said finally, voice low. “It won’t.”
No comfort. Just judgment — quiet, but sharp enough to leave a sting.
Rumi’s lips parted in disbelief. “At least I tried to help her. Not just stand there and watch.”
Mira’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t move from the door. “You think I was watching?”
Rumi’s voice came back faster now, brittle with heat. “Looked like it to me.”
Mira stayed by the door longer than she meant to, arms crossed, weight leaning against the frame like she could keep herself from saying what she wanted to say. But Rumi’s face—half-defiant, half-aching—made it too easy to push.
She’s still doing it. Hiding inside that hope like it’s a shield. Like if she just smiles hard enough, the truth won’t crack her open.
“You think you can just braid your hair and pretend this is fine?” Mira’s voice was sharper than she intended, but she didn’t pull it back. “Zoey’s lying there because you weren’t ready. Because we weren’t ready.”
Rumi’s head snapped up. “Because I wasn’t—? You think this is my fault?” Rumi’s braid slipped loose.
“Some of it is.” Mira stepped in now, closing the door behind her. “You’re so busy feeling everything you forget to think. That’s going to get someone killed.”
Rumi’s laugh was short, humorless. Her braid tied in a quick move as she stepped up. “Right, because your thing—your fortress of solitude. Locking it all down, pretending you're fine – that's not going to implode spectacularly—that’s so much better?”
And there it was, Mira thought. The jab aimed exactly where it would bruise deepest. Rumi always knew where to hit.
“You think I don’t feel this? I’m just not… letting it eat me alive.” Mira’s voice lower. Stepping dangerously close to Rumi.
“You mean you’re pretending it doesn’t hurt. You mean you’re acting like we can just—” Rumi’s voice broke for half a second before she caught it. “—move on like she isn’t lying there right now.”
Their words got quicker, sharper, until the space between them felt hot. Each sentence was half accusation, half confession.
Then they both went quiet. The silence was so sudden it almost rang in their ears.
And in that silence, the image hit them both at the same time—Zoey laughing. Not on a mission, not training, just laughing, tipping her head back like she didn’t have a care in the world.
Rumi’s throat felt tight. Mira’s chest ached.
“That’s what this is,” Mira said quietly, though her tone had lost its edge. “We’re just… scared. And we don’t know what to do with it.”
Rumi nodded, eyes fixed on the floor. “Yeah.”
Neither of them said anything else for a long time.
---
At some point, they ended up back in the living room—neither of them could pinpoint when or how. The kitchen sat untouched; the thought of food felt almost offensive. Instead, they settled on tea.
Time passed with no real sense of it moving. The faint tick of the wall clock might as well have been miles away. Mira stared into her cup like the curling steam might write out an answer she could finally read. She fought to keep her mind from circling back to the same place—Zoey, her breathing, the machines, the stillness. Because once the thoughts got ahold of her, they didn’t let go.
Rumi sat across from her, hands cupped around the mug for warmth she couldn’t feel. Don’t picture her lying there. Don’t picture the way her hand felt in yours before they took her to that room. Don’t picture the silence. But her mind betrayed her anyway, replaying every moment.
Their eyes met, locked in a stare that held no comfort. Their guilt was bleeding through, shaping itself into anger because anger was easier to hold.
“You better pray she wakes up,” Mira said before she realized the words had left her mouth.
Rumi’s head snapped up. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’ll kill someone… if she—” Mira stopped, her gaze dropping to the table, voice fracturing on what she couldn’t bring herself to finish.
“You’re trying not to blame me…” Rumi mumbled, her hand hesitantly reaching across the table. “It was my fault.”
Mira’s eyes narrowed as she caught the subtle collapse in Rumi’s face, the way her fear carved out patterns under her skin.
“You don’t control me, Rumi.” Mira’s hand closed over hers—firm enough to hurt, but not enough to break. “We both made choices. We both failed to protect her.”
But deep down, Mira knew she was dancing a dangerous waltz—one step in her own accountability, the other teetering on a breakdown over Rumi’s actions. I wish I hadn’t listened to you. The thought was sharp, bitter, and she kept it locked behind her teeth.
“If Zoey doesn’t—” Rumi’s voice cracked, but she didn’t need to finish. The rest hung heavy in the air, carved into the silence. “Do it… I won’t fight back.”
The words settled between them like a loaded weapon on the table, the silence swollen with the unspoken promise they’d both just made.
They sat there, breathing the same stale air, and knew the truth: they wouldn’t sleep tonight. And if they kept clawing at each other like this, one of them wouldn’t see the morning for reasons that had nothing to do with Zoey’s condition.
Rumi’s gaze shifted toward the hallway. “Let’s… go to her room,” she said, her voice low but steadier. “There’s that demo she was recording. We can play it—just to hear her voice.”
They padded down the hallway, the air growing heavier the closer they got to Zoey’s door.
Rumi pushed the door open slowly, like she was afraid the room itself might shatter. It was exactly as Zoey had left it—bed unmade, empty bag of gummy worms in the floor, open notebooks everywhere, her keyboard blinking in sleep mode, a sweater draped over the desk chair like she’d just stepped out for a moment.
Rumi crossed to the laptop, fumbling with the mouse until the demo file appeared on the screen. She hesitated for half a breath, then hit play.
Zoey’s voice spilled into the room—warm, alive, playful. The opening laugh she always did before starting a song burst through the static.
Mira’s throat tightened instantly. It didn’t sound like a memory. It sounded like she was right there, perched on the bed, eyes sparkling, teasing them for staring.
They stood frozen, the melody threading around them, wrapping the air in something unbearable.
Mira sat on the edge of the bed without realizing it, hands pressed together like she was holding onto the sound itself. Rumi stayed by the speaker, her eyes fixed on the floor, jaw trembling as if the laughter might crack her in half.
Neither spoke. They just let Zoey’s voice fill the room.
Zoey delivered line by line with sniper precision, flowing through the verses like water slipping through cracks—calm, unstoppable, inevitable.
They both slipped into memory—
Mira’s chest ached, the present dissolving into the memory of her own voice breaking through the silence back then—her finger tapping the stop button on Zoey’s laptop. “You should finish it.”
Zoey’s head had lifted, eyes searching. “You think it’s good?
“I think it’s honest,” Mira had said, standing as if that truth had physical weight. “That’s what people need most.”
Beside her, Rumi’s throat tightened as another fragment surfaced—her leaning over Zoey’s notebook, tracing a line in pen. “That last line… that feels like you.”
Zoey had smiled without looking up. “That’s kind of the point.” The beat had faded to a quiet loop while Zoey flipped to another page, scribbling fast, as if the thought might escape if she didn’t trap it in ink.
Now, the present caught up with them. The music faded, Zoey delivering the outro lines with a quiet ferocity that filled the room.
🎵 I’m not what I lost.
I’m what I survived.
No crown was given—
I carved it, alive. 🎵
Both girls held themselves tight, too drained to cry, too stubborn to break.
Rumi picked up a notebook—the same one Zoey had let her use the last time she was there. She ran her hand along its exposed spine, fingertips tracing the frayed binding.
“Do you know why she did that?” Mira’s voice was low, pointing at the missing cover.
Rumi shook her head.
“It had a hateful message towards demons. Most of them did,” Mira explained.
Only then did Rumi’s eyes wander the room, noticing that most of the notebooks scattered around had their covers ripped or partially torn away.
Mira stood and grabbed Zoey’s trashcan, setting it in front of her.
“She hated herself for hurting you,” she said, the words sounding like a confession.
Rumi looked inside. A half-burned notebook rested on top of crumpled lyric sheets.
She recognized it instantly—that was where the Takedown lyrics had been written. Rumi's eyes fell upon the shreds, the reflection of the anguish that had compelled Zoey to rip apart her own words.
“She shouldn’t have,” Rumi muttered, voice tight. “We wrote that together.” The memory still hurt more than she wanted to admit.
She stirred the conversation away from the rawness. Opening the notebook in her hand, she sat cross-legged on the floor. “I think she was working on a couple different songs.”
Mira sat beside her. “It looked like it. By how the lyrics kept changing. But she wasn’t too open about it.”
They turned page after page until they found it—the song they had just listened to. There, between the verses, they saw it.
It wasn’t a lyric. It was a note. An intrusive thought that had slipped into the page:
Ask Rumi if she would do the chorus for this one—scratched out. Beneath it, smaller handwriting:
Would Mira feel left out?
The realization spread between them in silence.
Zoey’s secretive behavior with the songs.
The demo, already near studio quality.
/Would Mira feel left out?/
Long rap-heavy verses.
/Ask Rumi if she would do the chorus for this one./
The truth clicked into place.
Zoey wasn’t just working on their next track.
She was working on a solo album.
They didn’t speak at first. The weight of the words pressed heavier than the beat still looping in the background.
Mira’s eyes stayed on the page, tracing the scratched-out line as if it might change if she looked long enough.
Rumi’s fingers hovered above the notebook, not quite touching it, like the paper might burn her. The corner of her mouth twitch slightly.
Betrayal prickled at the edges—quiet, creeping.
Pride tried to push through it, stubborn but smaller.
Neither feeling fully won, leaving them stranded somewhere in the middle, unsure which truth hurt more:
That Zoey had dreamed beyond them.
Or that she might have been right to.
Chapter Text
The twenty-four hours Dr. Kang had mentioned came and went.
Twenty-four breath-stealing hours where Celine, Rumi, and Mira rotated every four, each taking a turn beside Zoey.
The visits themselves lasted only fifteen minutes. The rest of the time was spent in the waiting room—if it could even be called that—where the air felt stale and heavy, each minute swelling into something unbearable. They couldn’t decide which was worse: hearing nothing or hearing something.
Mira’s shifts were the quietest. She would stand right next to Zoey, eyes scanning her face like she could somehow read her, pull words straight from the stillness. She never touched her until the nurse asked her to leave. Then, always the same—softly, almost conspiratorially—“Wake up, Zoey.”
Celine moved with the slow care of someone folding origami out of glass. She fixed the blanket, smoothed the pillow, rested a hand on Zoey’s shoulder, and sang fragments of Sunlight Sisters’ songs in a voice so light it barely seemed to belong in a hospital room.
Rumi’s first time, she didn’t move past the door. Fifteen minutes, rooted there, frozen in the doorway as her eyes darted over the tubes, the monitors, the relentless beeping. When the nurse told her it was time to leave, she couldn’t make her legs work—someone had to guide her out.
After that, she forced herself forward in small increments. A hand on the bedframe. Then on Zoey’s blanket. By her third shift, she’d managed to hold Zoey’s hand, though she never looked at her directly. She mumbled her apologies like someone talking to the floor. Fifteen minutes never felt like enough to get past the shock.
They avoided each other whenever possible.
One of them was always at the clinic.
One was sleeping.
One was sitting alone somewhere, being chewed apart by thoughts they didn’t want to speak out loud.
The group chat became their only form of communication. Updates, arrival times, nothing more. Mira and Rumi passed each other like strangers. Celine had tried small talk in the first day, but it drained her faster than the waiting. She gave up on that, though she still picked up food on her way in and handed it to whichever girl she was relieving.
Around hour thirty, during Rumi’s turn, Dr. Kang came by with the first real news:
“Zoey is holding strong. Still on the ventilator. We’ll keep her in ICU for now.”
By hour forty-eight, she was off it.
At hour fifty-four, for the first time since this began, the three of them found themselves together in their private waiting room.
Celine had called them after Dr. Kang said they had news. By the time Rumi and Mira arrived, the air in the small waiting area felt heavy with unspoken things—sleep-deprived stares, half-empty paper cups of coffee, the rustle of jackets as they shifted in their seats. They didn’t stand too close to each other, but they didn’t drift far either, caught in that limbo where proximity was unavoidable but comfort was out of reach.
When Dr. Kang stepped in, she looked so different from the last time they’d seen her—hair down, perfectly smooth, white coat crisp, her expression relaxed. That alone told them more than words could: the hardest part was over.
"We are moving her to a room."
The three women reacted in their own quiet ways. Mira’s shoulders loosened just a fraction, like she’d been holding herself in a rigid frame for days. Celine’s hand went to her mouth, not to hide a gasp, but to steady herself against the sudden wave of relief. Rumi let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, her gaze flicking toward the door behind Dr. Kang, as if she could see Zoey through it already. None of them spoke, but the shift in the air between them was undeniable—still fragile, still tense, but lighter now, anchored by hope.
After a few light exchanges—simple words about how the move would work, how Zoey had been stable all morning—Celine finally said she’d head back to the tower and get some real sleep. The rules could change now, she explained, now that there was no strict visit schedule.
Neither Mira nor Rumi argued. They didn’t even glance at each other, but both made the same silent decision: neither was going to leave until Zoey opened her eyes.
The new room was quieter, softer somehow, free from the constant beeping chaos of the ICU. Zoey lay there with fewer tubes than before, her breathing steady, her face less pale. The sunlight filtering through the blinds caught in her hair, making her look almost like herself again. Every now and then, her fingers gave the faintest twitch against the sheets, as if chasing some dream. A soft sigh would escape her, and once, when a nurse wheeled in a squeaky cart, her breathing subtly synced to the rhythm of the wheels—slow, steady, unhurried.
Mira took the chair closest to her head, posture still straight but her eyes fixed on every tiny rise and fall of Zoey’s chest. Rumi settled on the other side, elbows on her knees, her hand tentatively brushing against Zoey’s fingers, occasionally tracing the faint indent of a ring mark that was no longer there.
Around the room, small bursts of color had appeared—gifts from fans that had been delivered even here. A bouquet of sunflowers in a jar, their bright heads tilting toward the light. A tiny plush fox perched on the windowsill.
Handwritten cards with uneven lettering taped along the wall like quiet, stubborn declarations of love. And of course a gigant turtle plushie from Bobby.
The flowers made the room smell faintly of summer, almost masking the sterile undertone of the clinic.
For the first time in days, the air wasn’t sharp with fear—it was still, warm, and full of waiting.
The hours seemed to pass faster now that Zoey was by their side. Mira and Rumi had been listening to her breathing, steady and rhythmic, almost hypnotic.
When one of them stepped out—for the bathroom, for coffee, or just to clear their head—the one who stayed behind would inevitably end up talking to Zoey in a low voice. Nothing urgent, nothing heavy. Just small fragments of the outside world.
It was hardest for Mira to start. She had been content to sit in silence, letting the machines do the talking for her. But one time, as she pushed open the door, she heard Rumi saying softly, “I never realized how much I missed turtle videos.” The words were so absurd, so tender in their own crooked way, that Mira froze in the doorway. She knew Rumi was still the reason they were here… but god help her, she wanted her to keep talking. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t bring it up later.
Something shifted.
That night, when Rumi returned from a coffee run, she found Mira murmuring to Zoey about a street musician she’d passed on her way back. Rumi didn’t tease her. She just set the coffee down within reach and sat quietly, the corner of her mouth barely lifting.
They had even started taking turns to read Zoey fan cards aloud.
It wasn’t truce.
Not yet.
But it was something like warmth in the space between them.
The couch on the side of the room had become the girls’ improvised bed—more a last resort than a place to actually sleep. A reluctant agreement, after Rumi hit her head falling of her chair half sleep and Mira dragged her there. Even if they only ended up there when exhaustion finally pried them from their chairs.
Celine had come back by the end of the second day, a tote bag swinging from each hand and the smell of something fresh trailing in with her. She set a bag in front of each girl, then unpacked warm breakfast onto the small table.
“It was clear you didn’t intend to leave her,” she said, her voice gentler than usual. “But you still need to take care of yourselves.”
Steam curled from the cups between them. Rumi’s and Mira’s hair was still damp from quick showers in the clinic’s staff bathroom, the scent of soap and clean towels faintly mixing with the aroma of coffee. Sunrise pooled across the floor, catching in the edges of Zoey’s blanket—just for a moment, it almost looked like her fingers shifted, reaching for the light.
For the first time in days, the air in the room felt lighter—less like a waiting room, more like a place people actually lived in.
They ate together in a quiet rhythm, shoulders relaxing, voices slipping into casual conversation. Even the smallest smiles felt easier now.
Zoey was still resting, but the space around her no longer felt like a place of crisis—it felt like the first fragile stretch of morning after a long night.
And then, all at once, they felt it: the cold prick up their spines, the shiver that started at the base of the skull.
They locked eyes.
Something had crossed the Honmoon.
Notes:
Okay.
Next chapter is posted.And...It is good new.
Real good news.
Chapter Text
It was cold.
And scary.
Not the kind of cold where you shiver—this was the cold of nothing.
I kept walking, or thought I was. My legs moved beneath me, solid and heavy, but I couldn’t see them. Sometimes I bent to check they were still there, but the darkness swallowed everything whole.
And then—sounds. Off-kilter sounds. Voices far away, then alarms, then laughter that felt too close. Like drops of ink spreading in water.
Once, my favorite Sunlight Sisters song floated in, but slowed—softened—like it was playing from the other side of a thin wall, candlelight flickering in the tune.
My chest hurt. Not sharp pain, but the strange, forced ache of someone else making it move from the inside out. A hiss behind me—steady, mechanical.
Sometimes the darkness thinned, just enough to suggest a path, as if someone was calling me.
One time, there was movement. Not me—around me. The ground shifted softly under my shoulders.
I felt like I was drifting at sea, and I almost let myself sink.
"Wake up, Zoey." Mira? Maybe. Or maybe the dark was just tricking me.
A soft warmth against my fingers.
A small weight on my shoulder.
The darkness didn’t feel as solid anymore.
A breath—not mine—deep and steady. A faint squeak in time with it. I matched my breathing to the sound without thinking.
Warmth again. Laughter—maybe more than one. Someone staying close, close enough that I could feel them through the black.
The darkness began to break in pieces, letting in fragments of color.
"I never realized how much I missed turtle videos." That was Rumi. I’d know that crooked tenderness anywhere.
I could feel my legs again, heavy and far away.
"We could go together..." Who said that? I wanted to go. My toes twitched—at least I thought they did.
"He was okay. Not as good as you but still sounded good..." Mira. Definitely Mira.
My body was still a stone.
"When you come back, Zo, we’ll eat all your favorites." Rumi’s whisper brushed against my face, and I almost leaned into it.
"I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me. I would have understood." Mira again?
"...I never felt enough for my Korean family, until I found you. And your music helped me underst—" Wait—don’t stop! I wanted to hear the rest.
I focused harder, reaching for the voices like a swimmer toward the surface.
"She keeps falling asleep like this, Zoey. I swear she just wants me to cover her." Mira’s voice, close. "Sleep, Rumi. I got her."
No, Mira. I wanted to help.
"Zo, I’ll do the chorus for you. I’ll be in the first row with a lightstick at your first concert. Just... come back. Please." Rumi’s voice cracked, and I ached to reach her.
"Zoey. Wake up. We miss you. I miss you." Mira again. I wanted to say, I’m here. My fingers might have moved.
"No way someone will actually write this!" Mira—offended?
Rumi’s laugh spilled in. God, I’d missed it.
"Just pick another one, I’m not reading this to her!" Mira. A rustle, the sound of playful shoving.
"I didn’t know you were so protective of our little maknae." Rumi teased.
"Shut up!" Mira snapped, but I tried to smile.
"There is no way. I’m not leaving!" Mira again, sharp.
"You’re still a hunter... and we have a duty." Celine, voice steady but soft.
"We can’t without her." Rumi. Heat spread through my hand where hers must’ve been.
"She isn’t the only one who can rap. And you aren’t the only ones who can sing. Or fight." Celine, firm.
"It better be quick." Mira, angry now.
Then—noise. Movement.
And silence.
Wait—where? Where did you go? Take me with you!
I pushed against the heaviness, but my body was a locked door.
They were leaving. Hunting. Without me. My mind rang like an alarm. What if they got hurt? What if I wasn’t there?
My heart kicked hard. My breaths came fast. I needed to go.
The ringing grew so loud it swallowed everything. Light stabbed at me—too bright.
I thought maybe one eye opened, but both lids felt weighed down. I fluttered my lashes, desperate, like I’d been handed the wrong game controller without instructions and in a language I didn’t speak.
Slowly, painfully, I pried my eyes open. My throat burned dry. I couldn’t move my mouth. Couldn’t call for them.
Cards. Balloons. Plushies. The room was full of them.
But not them.
You’re too much, Zoey, my own voice said in my head.
Then—footsteps. The door opening.
"You still have it," Mira’s voice. She stood in the doorway, sweat on her forehead, one hand still gripping the knob.
Celine and Rumi flanked her—Rumi’s eyes rimmed with exhaustion, Celine’s mouth curled in the smallest smile.
They froze. Celine’s hand rose to cover her mouth. Rumi’s eyes went wide.
Then Mira moved—running, dropping to her knees beside me, arms wrapping tight around my shoulders.
I groaned at the small jolt of pain.
"Zo, I’m sorry. I’m just—" Her voice broke. "So freaking happy to see your clueless eyes."
She was crying. Crying into my shoulder.
And I’d never been so glad to feel the weight of someone holding on.
Notes:
I cried with Mira. Fyi.
Chapter 9: Only that it hurt.
Chapter Text
-----'
“You know... I’m not... glass, right?”
Zoey’s voice was raspy, each word threaded with breaths a little more labored than they should’ve been. Rolled up in a blanket like a burrito, she was half sitting, half lying in the hospital bed. Mira sit beside her, spoon in hand, feeding her slowly. At the foot of the bed, Rumi sat in a chair with her arms crossed over Zoey’s shins and her chin resting on them, watching her with a smile so warm it could melt the IV stand.
“We know,” Mira said flatly, lifting another spoon to Zoey’s lips.
“It’s not that you’re fragile, Zo.” Rumi’s voice was soft, almost a lullaby. “You just happen to be the most important person in the world to us.”
“And we want to take care of you,” Mira added, no-nonsense as she nudged the spoon forward until Zoey took another bite.
Zoey’s eyes widened, blinking like she wasn’t sure what to do with that much tenderness at once. Then, without saying anything, she went back to eating—her lips curling into the smallest, shyest smile.
She felt loved.
-----
The first time Zoey woke up, she only managed to keep her eyes open for a couple of minutes.
Celine and Rumi had bolted out of the room to find the doctor the moment her lashes fluttered, so when she drifted back to sleep, a very -very- worried Mira ended up dragging a passing nurse inside as if the woman might magically keep Zoey awake.
Later that day, Doctor Kang explained that some people are extremely sleepy after a coma.
Zoey was a little disoriented at first. It took hours before she remembered Celine’s name—but with Rumi and Mira, there was never a flicker of doubt. Family lived too deep in her bones to forget.
Little by little, she began staying awake longer—sitting up, attempting to talk. Drinking water became her favorite pastime, each sip feeling like divine grace poured straight from the heavens.
Doctor Kang advised her to avoid speaking for a few days so her throat could recover from the ventilator. That didn’t stop Zoey from wanting to speak. She had a hundred questions.
But her responsibilities as both a hunter and an idol pressed on her, enough to try . A few thoughts still slipped out in rasping whispers before she caught herself.
---
The clinic still smelled faintly of disinfectant, though most of the bottles on the shelves were empty. Zoey lay propped on the cot, the stitched wound along her side pulling lightly with every breath. Mira was near the doorway, arms crossed, while Rumi fussed over folding the blanket.
“Staring ...,” Zoey muttered, trying for lightness.
Mira smirked faintly but didn’t move. “Just making sure you’re not planning an escape.”
Rumi chuckled, though her eyes didn’t quite match her voice. She brushed a stray hair from Zoey’s forehead, her hand lingering a moment too long. “We’ll be gone for a bit. Celine will stay with you.”
Zoey frowned. “Where ...?”
Rumi glanced at Mira before answering. “Just… something we have to check on.”
Mira avoided her gaze entirely, adjusting the strap of her bag. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
The words were casual, but Zoey felt a faint pressure in the air — the kind that meant there was more to the story. She swallowed her questions and only nodded.
Before leaving, Rumi squeezed her hand, thumb brushing over Zoey’s knuckles like she was memorizing the feel. “Rest. We’ll be back.”
----
By the end of the day, they had her try some food. After Mira spoon-fed her an entire bowl of soup, and Doctor Kang finally gave the go-ahead for her to go home.
The transition from the hospital to the tower was cathartic for everyone.
Zoey’s lingering confusion eased as soon as she was surrounded by familiar walls and memories. But the comfort came with a sting—she could tell the place had been neglected. Cups left in odd corners, clothes abandoned on the floor, and a thin film of dust in the kitchen made her wonder if Mira and Rumi had eaten properly at all while she was gone. She pushed the thought away each time she saw them hovering close, unwilling to let her out of their sight.
Rumi looked utterly spent, yet she allowed herself brief pockets of sleep—always within arm’s reach of Zoey, close enough to wake at the faintest cough. She had also made her mission always keeping cold tea with honey near the rapper.
Mira, on the other hand, had practically become an extension of Zoey herself. She guided her when she walked, tucked blankets around her when she sat or lay down, and stayed beside her through the night, eyes fixed on Zoey’s face as if willing her to keep breathing.
Celine had stayed only long enough to lecture them—about protecting each other, and keeping calm under pressure—her last point aimed squarely at Rumi and Mira, who stood side by side, eyes down like scolded kids. Then Celine left for her own place, leaving the youngest in their hands.
Sometimes, when Zoey drifted into sleep, she could hear Mira softly calling her name. And when Zoey opened her eyes, Mira would quickly look away. Zoey smiled to herself, knowing Mira only wanted the reassurance that she could still wake her.
Rumi’s approach was the opposite—her priority was that Zoey rest, fully and deeply. She would hum songs as lullabies until Zoey’s breathing slowed, and sometimes kept singing long after Zoey had fallen asleep.
Even if Zoey's movements were still limited, even if every word clawed against the swelling in her throat, she clung to the feeling of warmth and safety that surrounded her when she was conscious.
Her waking hours were her anchor—because whenever she closed her eyes, the world shifted into something colder.
It wasn’t nightmares exactly. Just a jumble of strange, senseless dreams, stitched together by one constant thread—fear, cold, and a bone-deep loneliness.
The first night, she woke up crying. Or rather, Mira woke her. Mira had her arms around her before Zoey could even think, holding her close, whispering, "I’m here, Zoey. I got you."
Alone time was rare. The others made sure of that. And while she liked their presence, the few moments she had to herself were… necessary. Space to think. To breathe. To process. Sometimes, she found herself wondering if she’d actually died, and this was just a beautiful dream she was drifting through. But her hand would wander—almost on its own—to her side, and the faint burn of a healing wound would ground her back in reality.
By the second day in the tower, the need to communicate had become unbearable. They turned one of her notebooks into her “messenger,” letting her write instead of speak.
One of the first things she wrote was a question:
/ What happened to me?/
Mira and Rumi read the words in silence. When Zoey looked up at them with those wide, pleading eyes, it felt like something cracked in both of them. Shame rolled through the room, heavy enough that Mira could have gotten patterns of her own.
"You were..." Rumi started, but the words lodged in her throat. Ambushed? Attacked? None of it felt right, and she couldn’t bring herself to explain it all to Zoey—not yet.
Mira stepped in, voice low but steady. "A demon got to you." As if that was all there was to say. As if it didn’t open a hundred more questions for their Maknae.
"Do you… remember… anything?" Rumi’s voice was a whisper, brittle at the edges.
Zoey stared at the old notebook, pen hovering over the page. The silence in the tower was heavy, the kind that made every scratch of ink sound loud.
She thought about Rumi’s long squeeze before leaving the clinic. About Mira’s eyes flicking away every time she came close to asking the question directly. About the gap between what they’d said and what they weren’t saying.
Finally, she wrote a single line, then hesitated her eyes looked glasy. Mira gently took the notebook—not snatching, but decisive—and turned it so both she and Rumi could see.
/Only that it hurt./
Chapter 10: The Space Between
Summary:
None of them is really ready to talk about this — but the truth has its own gravity, pulling Zoey in whether they want it or not.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Zoey fell asleep shortly after their last conversation. She didn’t know why, but she had started uncontrollably shaking after writing that single line.
Both girls had rushed to her side, wrapping her in their arms until sleep claimed her.
When the black-haired girl began snoring softly, Mira and Rumi shared a surprised glance, followed by the faintest, sweetest smile. With the care of someone folding origami out of glass, they eased away, making sure she was properly covered before leaving her alone in the bed.
As soon as Rumi closed the door behind them, Mira let her weight fall against the hallway wall and slid down until she was sitting on the floor.
“She deserves more than that,” Mira said, searching for Rumi’s eyes.
“I just don’t know… how much to tell her.” Rumi lowered herself to sit across from her.
A heavy silence began to take shape between them until Rumi broke it.
“Isn’t it better if she doesn’t remember?” she asked cautiously, testing the ground.
“Not our choice,” Mira answered, her voice final.
The air between them was still heavy. They avoided speaking unless it was about Zoey. The fear was gone, but guilt had taken its place—settling into the empty seat between them like an uninvited guest.
It was hard to crack through for two stubborn girls who seemed almost allergic to vulnerability.
The faint creak of the wooden floor went unnoticed as Rumi hid her face in her knees.
“What is it?” Mira asked.
“Do you think she’ll push me away when she finds out it was my fault?” Rumi mumbled.
“Our fault,” Mira corrected. “And no. I don’t think so.”
Rumi lifted her gaze. “Then why haven’t you told her?”
Mira’s jaw tensed. She tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling.
“I don’t know where to start… or where to stop.” One arm crossed over her body, gripping the opposite shoulder. “I keep thinking… what would’ve happened if I’d called her name instead of yours.”
Rumi shifted uncomfortably. Did Mira wish it had been her going through that hell instead of Zoey?. No.That was Rumi's own wish.
“I thought he was going after you. I really did.” Mira’s voice sounded like someone giving excuses before asking for forgiveness.
“Why didn’t you stop it?” Rumi’s tone was curious, not accusing.
“I tried. When I saw it, I ran. But he was faster—way ahead. I didn’t have my weapon. I just… alerted you.” Mira’s knuckles whitened with the pressure of her grip.
“Without propulsing from your gok-do, I wouldn’t have gotten there in time to deflect those claws. And it is not like you getting run over by a car would have helped. ” Rumi offered in reassurance.
“I know. " Her voice wasn't convincing.
“I didn’t have time to finish him, even if I wanted. " It was Rumi's voice asking for forgiveness this time.
"I’ve played this scenario in my mind a thousand times. And no matter what we did, it feels like she was bound to get injured—like a sick script we couldn’t escape.”
" Except... for the first choice. Listening,” Rumi said firmly.
“And we made that one together.” Mira finally let her body relax, defeated.
"We should have stayed together." Rumi's voice distant.
"Cover our backs." Mira’s said like reciting a mantra.
A small silence floated in the air as Rumi remembered Zoey’s faint, raspy voice: “You know... I’m not... glass, right?”
“Gosh, I can’t take her saying things like that.” The thought slipped out as Rumi let her head fall back.
Mira raised an eyebrow, puzzled.
“She’s not weak,” Rumi clarified, her voice steadier this time. “I don’t think I would have survived something ... like that.”
Mira’s eyes sharpened, her expression unreadable. “The claws?” she asked.
And that was all it took. Rumi broke. The words started pouring out, jagged and fast, each one dragging another image to the surface.
“Being tackled—no, pinned down— the blood. God, the smell of it—no, before that—her chest with a hand straight through her ...All that... blood. The run to Dr. Kang.... the feel of her body going limp-Then the surgeries—three of them—in one night—Too weak for surgery—no, too weak not to—Rushed under the lights because waiting would’ve killed her faster—" Rumi’s voice cracked... same way it did then: fragile, breaking." Bringing her back... after her heart .... stopped. All those... machines... around her. Inside her. Sh-she looked so small. ”
Her hands clutched at her own hair now, as if trying to hold the memories back.
“That thing breathing for her ... her lungs were too-too weak for it. Just all... all of it.”
A gasp came from the other side of the door, followed by short, heavy breaths.
Zoey had woken when Mira’s body slammed into the wall. And stayed quiet, listening to every word of their conversation. My fault—no, theirs—no, it’s not that simple. She deliberated, her mind racing with the weight of their words.
A flicker of panic crossed both Rumi’s and Mira’s eyes. They scrambled to their feet, yanking the door open—only to find Zoey on the ground, blanket half-slipped from her shoulders. Her hands covered her mouth, her body shaking, tears slowly streaming down her face.
Memories were rushing back to her now—messy, fragmented, and jagged-edged. Every single one was painful. So painfully real.
A white-hot sting in her chest.
The wet, metallic taste of blood flooding her tongue.
The crushing pressure of claws digging into her ribs—no, Mira’s hands now, gripping her shoulders hard, shaking her.
"Zoey!" Mira’s voice—too loud, too close—splintered into the memory of Dr. Kang’s urgent commands somewhere beyond her.
The sterile bite of hospital air.
Cold tubes forcing themselves down her throat—her body gagging—yet in the present, Rumi’s hands cupped her cheeks, trying to hold her still.
"Zo!" Rumi’s voice broke, but the tone was the same one from that night.
Machines clicking, pumping, hissing—breathing for her.
Her breaths now: short, jagged, fighting against invisible restraints.
Her body then: heavy, useless.
Her body now: locked stiff beneath their hands.
The heat of her own blood spilling across her skin.
The heat of Mira’s chest pressed against her side now, holding her like she might vanish again.
The blanket in her grasp was warm and damp against her fingers, yet her mind swore it was the rough, scratchy hospital sheet. Mira’s hands felt like both safety and restraint, keeping her tethered yet caging her in the same breath.
Zoey’s sobs broke through the images, but the past refused to let go. Rumi’s voice was calling her name, Mira’s touch was here in the now—but all Zoey could hear was the flat, unbroken tone of a heart monitor… before it screamed back to life.
When the sounds in her mind finally surrendered to the sounds around her, when the chaotic fragments finished unlocking in her brain, she tore her shoulders free from Mira’s grip.
Mira’s gaze flicked to Rumi—a silent warning to tread carefully.
Zoey didn’t flinch. Her blanket slipped further down her shoulders, but she didn’t pull it back up.
“Don’t—” her raspy voice cracked, but she forced it louder. “Don’t treat me… like I’m gonna break.”
Her hands trembled, but her chin stayed high. The tears on her cheeks caught the dim light—unhidden, unwiped.
Rumi shifted closer, her expression softening, but Zoey's stare cut through it like a knife.
"You want me here? Then stop—keeping me—in the dark." Each word was a raw, agonized scrape, her swollen throat constricting around every syllable. The air was electric, charged with tension, as if the very atmosphere was about to snap.
Rumi's eyes locked onto Zoey's, her voice barely above a whisper. "I am so sorry, Zoey. So very sorry I failed to protect you."
Zoey's response was a primal scream that shattered the air.
"I AM A HUNTER!"
The words tore from her throat like a battle cry, a defiant affirmation of her strength and resilience. Even when her vocal cords went raw and bleeding from the effort.
Rumi stumbled back, her eyes wide with alarm, as if she'd been physically struck by the force of Zoey's declaration. Mira's face went pale, her gaze fixed on Zoey's ravaged throat, concern and admiration etched on her features.
The sound hung in the air, a jagged, painful thing that made the silence that followed feel like a collective holding of breath.
Zoey's body trembled with the effort, her chest heaving, her eyes blazing with a fierce determination. She stood tall, her shoulders squared, her voice echoing through the room like a challenge.
Mira's voice was a gentle counterpoint, a soft, measured calm. "Let's talk. We'll answer anything—honestly." She reached for the light switch, flooding the room with warm, golden light, a stark contrast to the darkness that had been building. "But please, Zoey..." she gestured toward the desk, her eyes locked on Zoey's ravaged throat, "...write."
Zoey’s breath came in ragged pulls, the fight still burning in her eyes even as the room steadied around her. She didn’t reach for the paper right away—her fingers hovered, curling once, twice, like she was weighing whether it was worth giving them the satisfaction of her compliance.
Mira stayed still, patient in the way only someone used to dangerous animals could be. Rumi, though, looked like she was forcing herself not to step forward again.
Zoey snatched the pen. Her grip was too tight, knuckles paling, and the first drag of ink across the page was jagged.
/Why. "listening "?/
She shoved the paper toward them, chest heaving. Her eyes dared either of them to pretend they didn’t know what she meant.
Neither answered right away. Mira’s jaw flexed. Rumi’s gaze flickered, not to avoid the question but to measure the damage of telling the truth.
Zoey’s hand came down hard on the table, not loud but sharp enough to cut through the hesitation. Her voice rasped, just above a whisper, but it carried like a blade:
“Don’t lie to me.”
The silence this time was heavier. Mira finally exhaled, leaning forward on her elbows, her voice steady but low.
" It trick us. Said to have some information and wanted to talk."
Rumi’s eyes darted to the floor.
Zoey knew Mira was not the kind to talk to demons, no mater what. Which ment Rumi had made the call. Just looking at her gilty behavior confirmed that.
/Did. He?. /
Rumi's weak voice intervined.
" I don’t know. He said they knew something. But before he could tell me I rushed to..." she weighted the words carefully" assist you.
Mira placed her hand on Rumis shoulder. Eyes still focus on Zoey. "And then it hit us from the back. Non of us where ready. We didn’t count it as a threat."
Zeys eyes went dark as she wrote in the notebook.
/ it sucks it was now.
It sucks it was this bad.
It sucks it was me.
But what we do is dangerous. And I knew that. /
She gave them a couple seconds to read and then sentenced.
" I am as much of a hunter as you are."
Her voice was low, quiet but unwavering. She pushed through the pain.
Mira didn’t look away from Zoey’s eyes when she answered, her voice low but clear.
“You are. As much as we are. You’ve earned that a hundred times over. And…” she let the sentence hang for a moment, “…that doesn’t erase our duty to you. Or yours to us.”
Rumi nodded, the tension in her shoulders loosening just enough for her to speak without her voice trembling.
“It’s not about seeing you as weak, Zo. It’s about covering each other’s backs. We screw up, we talk about it. We bleed, we make sure the other one gets patched. We…” she hesitated, searching for the right word, “…we drag each other home.”
Zoey’s jaw worked, not in anger now but in thought. The notebook lay on the desk, abandoned—
Mira shifted, leaning forward so she was level with her. “You think protecting you means keeping you in the dark. Sometimes… it’s telling you everything and trusting you can carry it without falling apart. That’s what we owe you. That’s what you owe us.”
There was no dramatics from Zoey this time—no slammed pen, no raised voice. Just a small exhale that carried something heavy away with it. Her gaze softened a fraction, and she glanced between them.
“Then don’t hold back again,” she said, the raw edge of her voice turning almost quiet.
“We won’t,” Rumi promised—and for the first time in days, it didn’t sound like a thing said just to calm her down.
Something shifted in the room—barely perceptible, but real. The air didn’t feel like it was ready to snap anymore. Zoey let her weight rest back in the chair, and Rumi moved closer, slow enough for her to pull away if she wanted. She didn’t.
Mira stayed standing, watching them both, but the hard line in her posture eased—like the night she’d first vouched for Zoey, except now she didn’t have to fight anyone to do it.
It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet.
But it was the first step toward it.
And when Rumi’s hand brushed Zoey’s in a light, tentative touch, Zoey didn’t pull away.
She let it stay.
Notes:
This took me a while to write, because there is so many posible reactions to trauma.
But this felt true to Zoey.
Hope you enjoy it.
Chapter 11: The weight of silence
Summary:
Click. click.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
After the rough voice from the night before, Zoey’s throat was even more swollen now. She had decided to hang one of her notebooks around her neck so she could write everything down instead of speaking all day.
Now that things had been exposed and talked through, the trio seemed more relaxed.
Zoey was getting more alone time—even if Rumi and Mira were still protective whenever they were around her.
Mira was keeping a little more distance now, though she still watched Zoey from afar.
Rumi had finally allowed herself to get some decent sleep—kind of. Late morning, she emerged from the couch where she’d passed out sometime after sunrise. Her hair was a storm and her eyelids half-shut, but she actually looked rested.
Zoey met her halfway across the room, holding out a glass of cold tea with honey and sipping from her own like a peace offering. Rumi blinked at her, surprised, and took it with a slow grin.
“Guess I can’t feel guilty if you’re spoiling me,” Rumi mumbled before disappearing into the kitchen.
Zoey smiled to herself, proud of being able to take care of her friends. The static in her head buzzed softly, a gentle hum that she'd grown accustomed to.
But now, it seemed to be growing louder, more insistent.
The afternoon stretched in a lazy quiet. Zoey sat cross-legged at the end of the couch, notebook balanced on her knees, listening to the distant hum of Mira and Rumi’s conversation in the kitchen.
By then, Zoey had already started using her new “system”—a couple of quick pen clicks to get their attention.
A flicker of light from the TV caught her eyes, and just like that, the room dissolved.
The smell hit first—smoke, burned candy- the static grew louder. Her chest tightened. The couch under her was gone.
She blinked, hard. The ceiling swam back into view, and her knuckles ached from how tightly she was gripping her pen.
Mira’s voice cut through the fog. “Hey.”
Zoey turned her head. Mira was standing just beside the couch, not blocking her view, not crouching down—just close enough that their shoulders brushed when she shifted. A warm, steady weight settled there. Mira didn’t look at her; she just kept watching the TV, one arm resting loosely against Zoey’s back like it was nothing.
Zoey’s breath evened out. She didn’t move, but she didn’t pull away either.
Later, when the static in her head started to buzz again, she slipped quietly into the hallway and closed herself in the bathroom. The mirror caught her reflection—eyes glassy, jaw clenched—but the silence was hers.
By evening, the pen clicks had turned playful.
Click. Click.
Rumi was still drinking her tea when she heard the pen and automatically turned her head toward Zoey.
Across the living room, Mira lowered her book just enough to make eye contact too.
Zoey turned the paper so they could see.
/Hungry./
Mira raised an eyebrow, her tone skeptical but not unkind.
"We just had lunch."
Zoey pointed at her paper with the pen, tapping it twice with quick, exaggerated precision.
Rumi giggled, leaning back into the couch cushions.
"Good thing you know where the kitchen is, then," she said, smiling.
Zoey’s eyes widened in mock outrage before quickly narrowing into a frown. Without missing a beat, she scribbled something fast, flipped the notebook around, and held it at chest level while pressing one hand dramatically against her ribs.
/But I feel weak./
Mira snorted and rolled her eyes.
"Oh, really?"
She didn’t even hide the disbelief in her voice, though a small smirk tugged at her lips.
Rumi’s smile softened, but her gaze lingered on Zoey for a moment. She could tell the girl was hamming it up, milking the moment for all it was worth—but still… there was something about Zoey’s big-eyed plea that made it impossible to completely brush off.
"Okay, okay. What do you want?" Rumi sighed, getting up.
By the time she reached the kitchen doorway, Zoey had already finished writing her reply in bold, dramatic strokes. She whipped the notebook around like it was a grand reveal.
/Snacks!/
Rumi shook her head, chuckling, and started rummaging through cabinets.
"Define snacks, troublemaker. You want sweet, salty, or the dangerous third option?"
Mira spoke from behind her book without looking up.
"Don’t give her the dangerous third option. She’ll weaponize it."
Zoey's eyes flashed with a hint of anxiety that vanished as fast as it appeared. Zoey tapped her pen rapidly in a staccato rhythm—click, click, click—then scribbled a new word under “Snacks” in big block letters. She turned it toward Mira and Rumi again, her grin practically spilling off her face.
/ALL./
Rumi groaned, but she was still smiling. "You’re impossible."
Mira closed her book halfway, eyes flicking over Zoey’s smug expression. "Still convincing, somehow."
Zoey got a wide variety of snacks some time later. And she ate them balancing her feet from the high chair in the kitchen island.
Night came with the three of them piled on the couch, the glow from a drama painting their faces.
The drama had reached tragedy. On-screen, one of the two love interests—the “sensitive one,” according to Rumi—was running across the street to confess his feelings when a car came barreling in from nowhere.
As the drama reached its peak, Zoey's eyes darted towards the TV, her gaze fixed on the intense scene unfolding before her. Her pen paused mid-air, and for a moment, she seemed lost in thought, sniffing. Until the impact made Rumi gasp so loudly it startled her.
“He should have talked sooner,” Mira declared flatly, tossing a piece of popcorn into her mouth.
“He was struuuuggling,” Rumi countered, voice thick and watery with tears.
“Then he wasn’t ready to be with her.” Mira shrugged, as if it were a settled fact. “Also, the other guy is better for her.”
“Better? He doesn’t make her happy like this one does!” Rumi jabbed both arms toward the TV, as if her enthusiasm could somehow revive the fallen man.
Mira’s lips curled into a smirk as the scene lingered on a close-up of the guy lying motionless on the pavement after what had been a painfully exaggerated slow-motion fall.
“Yeah, I can tell how happy he’s going to make her,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Something soft thunked against Mira’s head. She blinked, turning just in time to see Rumi holding her head visibly confused too. 2 crunched papers next to them.
Click. Click.
They both turned toward the sound. Zoey was sitting cross-legged, notebook open, holding up a freshly written message in bold letters:
/Behave!/
Her eyes narrowed for emphasis, but the tear tracks down her cheeks made the warning more adorable than intimidating.
Mira scoffed but leaned back into the couch, muttering, “You two are impossible.”
Rumi sniffled and hugged a pillow tighter. Zoey, satisfied with her intervention, set the notebook down, but her pen stayed ready—just in case Mira made another “better guy” comment.
Much later, bowls of steaming rameyon replaced the popcorn.
Steam curled from the bowls, as Zoey leaned over the table. She felt a familiar tightness in her chest, like a band wrapping around her ribs.
She pushed the sensation aside, focusing on the conversation.
“I’m telling you,” Rumi said, slurping a noodle with zero shame, “cheese is the ultimate rameyon topping. Anyone who disagrees is wrong.”
Mira raised an eyebrow. “That’s not even traditional.” She carefully ladled broth over her noodles, neat and methodical. “Egg, scallions… maybe kimchi. That’s all you need.”
Click. Click.
/You’re both wrong,/
Zoey wrote quickly, turning the notebook for them to see.
/Corn./
“Corn?!” Rumi nearly dropped her chopsticks. “What are you, a seven-year-old at a buffet?”
Zoey smirked, ready to fire back—then the static became louder.
The pop from the kitchen, sharp and metallic, ripped straight through her chest like a wire tightening around her ribs. The air thickened, hot and wet, pressing against her ears until the voices around her warped. Her heart surged upward into her throat, choking her.
The steam blurred into smoke. The kitchen shadows stretched long, too long—closing in. Somewhere in the distance, the crack of splintering bones followed by the deep, gut-punch sound of something heavy collapsing.
Her hands locked around her chopsticks, trembling so hard they rattled against the ceramic bowl. She couldn’t get her breath past the tightness.
“Zoey?” Mira’s voice, sharp now. A scrape of her chair.
Zoey’s pulse roared in her ears. She couldn’t answer—couldn’t even see them.
“Hey!” Rumi was already on her feet, circling the table. “Zoey, look at me!”
Mira crouched beside her, grounding one palm against Zoey’s knee while keeping her tone low. “It’s just us. Kitchen’s fine. You’re fine.”
Rumi knelt on the other side, waving a hand in Zoey’s line of sight. “Zo! Don’t go under—look at me!Back here.”
Her vision flickered—smoke pulling back into steam, shadows snapping into table legs, bowls, faces. The pressure in her chest loosened enough for a ragged inhale.
“That’s it,” Mira murmured, not moving her hand.
Zoey blinked hard, swallowing against the raw edge in her throat.“…Sorry.” The word sliped out before she could stop it, a reflex she hated. Her gaze fell anyway.
Rumi scoffed softly, but there was no bite in it. “Don’t you dare apologize. You scared the crap out of us, though.”
Mira gave her knee a final squeeze before sitting back. “Eat while it’s still hot.”
Zoey nodded, but her hands shook as she lifted her chopsticks. A part of her was already retreating, wondering if she should slip away to the bathroom again, like she had earlier, when the world had felt too much to bear.
Rumi slurped another noodle, pointing at her with her chopsticks. “And for the record? Corn still sucks.” Rumi forced a grin. It came out lighter than she felt, but maybe normal was the best she could give right now.
Zoey’s lips twitched despite herself.
/You suck./
Her handwriting was uneven, and maybe, a little to hard against the paper. She forced a smile trying to ligthen the mood.
The conversation slid back into toppings—but now Mira’s chair was angled toward her, and Rumi stayed just close enough that their knees almost touched.
The table still smelled faintly of broth when Rumi wiped it down, her sleeves rolled past her elbows, methodical in every motion. In the kitchen, Mira stacked plates into the dishwasher, the steady clatter of ceramic giving way to silence once the machine hummed alive.
From the living room, a soft beat drifted in, muffled by walls but impossible to ignore. It pulsed low and slow, a heartbeat for the quiet apartment.
Rumi caught Mira’s eyes for a moment. The look they shared wasn’t sharp, but it carried too much to put into words—exhaustion, worry, something unspoken that hung between them. Mira didn’t move, shoulders loose but heavy, gaze dropped to the floor. She stayed rooted in place, unreadable, her presence dimmed like a lamp turned low.
Rumi let the silence press before she slipped away, footsteps padding down the hall. A thin line of light leaked through the crack in Zoey’s door. She leaned closer, cautious, and saw her: dark hair spilling forward, pen pressed fast to paper, words pouring out in desperate, messy bursts.
For a moment, Rumi just stood there, tangled between ache and admiration. Then—softly—her lips curved into a small, warm smile with a flicker or protectiveness dancing in her gaze.
Click. Click.
The sound cut through. Zoey tapped her pen twice, then lifted it, pointing without hesitation toward the doorway. Only then did her eyes flick upward.
The look that met Rumi’s wasn’t accusatory, not even annoyed—just sharp enough to say, I know you’re there.
Caught, Rumi froze. Her breath hitched, chest tight, like she’d been exposed mid-thought.
And Zoey, without a word, held her there.
Notes:
I just wanted to write a playful scene where Zoey takes advantage of the girls' excessive protection
But then my intrusive thoughts took over...and this happened.
I really enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope you enjoy reading it.
Chapter 12: Laughter in the Mist
Summary:
Was it ... planned?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Rumi shifted under her blanket for what felt like the hundredth time. Sleep wasn’t coming—every time she closed her eyes, her body stayed wired, restless, her brain chasing loops of unfinished thoughts.
Buzz.
Her phone lit up on the nightstand, screen too bright for her tired eyes. She squinted, thumb dragging across the glass.
Mira: Sparring? After breakfast.
Rumi’s lips twitched, half amused, half exasperated. Her thumbs moved slowly, sluggish with fatigue.
Rumi: Like friendly practice or do I need to set my affairs in order?
The reply came quicker than she expected.
Mira: Like we both should be sleeping by now and neither can shut up our minds. Good night.
Rumi snorted softly, shaking her head. She glanced at the time—2:27 a.m.—and tossed the phone back on the nightstand. Mira wasn’t wrong. Her own mind wouldn’t quiet. Still, the thought of moving through forms, blows, and blocks with Mira tugged at her chest like a thread. She let the idea linger as her eyes finally grew heavy and dreams pulled her under—troubled, uneven dreams.
---
A couple of days had slipped by.
Dr. Kang had called Zoey’s recovery “impressive.” Zoey herself wasn’t convinced. The stitches along her ribs still tugged every time she moved. Pain pulsed sharp if she twisted too far, and she’d get winded just from walking to much. Worse, her mind sometimes whispered that she’d died—that this was the after, that nothing around her was entirely real.
But she could talk again. Her voice came out raspy, low and strange in her own ears, but she was grateful for it. At least it was something familiar clawing its way back.
Routine helped too. Breakfast, specifically. Giant, frankly concerning breakfasts that were the kind of meals nutritionists used as cautionary tales. Stacks of pancakes heavy with syrup, sausages piled on the side, eggs swimming in cheese. She ate like someone who had nearly been taken from food entirely.
This morning, Zoey was still lingering at the kitchen table with her mountain of food when Rumi and Mira rinsed their dishes. The sound of plates sliding into the dishwasher and clattering against each other hummed in the background. She barely looked up—until they reappeared. Both of them, side by side, dressed in sport gear.
Zoey blinked. Then blinked again, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth.
“I must’ve missed the invitation to the Zumba class,” she rasped out, deadpan, raising her eyebrows.
Mira moved first, stepping to the counter and plucking an orange from the fruit bowl. “You can come watch if you want,” she said casually, rolling the orange between her palms.
Zoey’s lips curled in a smirk, but she didn’t miss the flicker in Rumi’s gaze—her friend’s eyes dropping quickly, almost guiltily, to Zoey’s ribs before darting away again. A reminder. Not ready yet.
Before Zoey could reply, phones buzzed at once. All three glanced down.
Celine: I’ll meet you there.
Rumi’s brows furrowed. She looked up, only to meet Mira’s equally puzzled stare.
Then it came. That shiver starting low, crawling up her spine. The three of them instinctively tilted their heads, almost in unison, toward the faint vibration humming through the air.
Through the apartment window, they caught it—a light-pink wave pulsing outward, washing past the tower. Honmoon energy.
“She must be closer to the location,” Rumi muttered, already moving, slipping her shoes on as she reached for the elevator button.
“We better hurry, then,” Mira said, orange abandoned on the counter as she crouched to lace her own sneakers.
“Hey!” Zoey’s voice cut through, raw with both rasp and emotion. “Why are you talking in code?” The note of hurt beneath it froze them.
That’s when they realized. Celine’s text hadn’t come privately—it had landed in that group chat. The one Rumi and Mira had used to update each other during Zoey’s ICU stay. The one Zoey was never added to.
Rumi’s face tightened. “Sorry, Zo. Celine’s meeting us there.” She pressed the elevator button again, sharper this time.
Mira looked back once as the doors began to part. “We’ll make this fast.” she promised.
“And then we’ll make it up to you.” Rumi added quickly, forcing brightness into her voice. She smiled at Zoey, wide but wavering at the edges. “Movie night tonight? Your pick.”
The doors slid shut between them.
Zoey stood in the quiet kitchen, her half-finished breakfast cooling in front of her.
A shaking fork on her hand and a knot twisting in her stomach.
---
The park was nearly deserted, shrouded in a damp hush that followed the morning rain. A concrete path curved along a river whose ripples glimmered faintly under the gray sky. At the park’s center stood a single bridge spanning the river. Trees dripped slowly, their leaves heavy, the whole scene muted as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Rumi and Mira stepped onto the path, their footsteps the only sound.
“Finally,” came a voice — sharp, calm, unmistakably Celine’s.
Both girls turned, scanning the empty park. Nothing.
Rumi tilted her head, instinct tugging at her memory. She forced herself to look up. And there, perched in the branches above, was Celine — poised like a hawk, white blouse pressed and gray slacks immaculate despite the drizzle. Even crouched on a branch, she carried herself with an elegance that felt almost unreal.
She dropped down with silent precision, landing on the balls of her feet without a sound.
Mira caught herself staring — not at Celine, but at Rumi. The way Rumi’s wide-eyed admiration softened her guarded face. Mira bit back a remark, though the thought pressed: Of course she’s like this. Look at who raised her.
Still, she couldn’t deny it: Celine’s movements were flawless, every gesture honed from years of discipline.
“Anything?” Rumi asked, steady but cautious.
“I saw a couple. 15 at least. A few hiding under the bridge.” Celine’s voice was flat, but then it faltered, unusual for her. “But…”
The pause hit like a crack in ice.
Mira and Rumi exchanged a look, shoulders tightening, bodies bracing.
“…They seem to be waiting.” Celine finished at last, her brows pulling together.
“Waiting for what?” Mira pressed, frowning.
“That,” Celine admitted, “I don’t know. Be careful.”
Her twin swords shimmered into form, the steel look material gleaming faintly even in the dim light. She moved forward, steps deliberate, pace measured but certain — a commander by instinct.
Mira summoned her gok-do, the long blade flashing into her hand. Her expression barely shifted, but the flicker of concern in her eyes betrayed her unease.
Rumi lingered for a breath too long, unease churning in her gut. Something about the silence didn’t sit right. The park shouldn’t feel this quiet.
The crunch of her teammates’ footsteps snapped her back, and she hurried forward, her weapon taking shape in her grip.
She began to hum — soft at first, then steadier. A melody they would recognize. To Celine and Mira, it was a signal. To herself, it was a tether, pulling her back from her own spirals.
The park was quiet except from the wind and distant thunder. The three of them moved in cautious steps, their sneakers pressing damp leaves.
Then — a scrape.
At the far end of the path, a demon hunched over a trash can, digging like a stray dog. Its neck jerked unnaturally when it sensed them.
The moment cracked open.
It shrieked, and the shadows behind it stirred. Dozens stepped out, not mindless this time — organized. Rusted swords. Heavy wooden maces. Their breathing came in rhythm, like a pulse that wasn’t their own.
Rumi didn’t wait. Blade out, her body cut the air sharp as glass. Mira followed with a surge, her staff spinning in wide arcs, each swing backed by raw force. And Celine—her voice broke into song before her body did, the melody of “What It Sounds Like” rising like an anthem no one could mute.
The demons moved in packs, forcing distance between the hunters. Each one fought on her own rhythm — Mira hammering blows like thunder, Rumi slicing with surgical precision, Celine stayed lighter, weaving through gaps, her eyes scanning.
A flicker stopped her cold.
A figure. Human-shaped. Covered in black. Watching.
For a heartbeat she was certain—
Then a mace came down. She bent low, fluid as water, and cut the demon’s throat in one motion. When she looked back, the figure was gone.
“Focus,” she whispered, as if to herself.
Steel clashed against staff. Wood cracked against blade. The music carried them.
Rumi was forced back, heels grinding the dirt, until her spine pressed against Mira’s.
Back-to-back for a fleeting second, their breathing aligned.
"Ohhh, now you are in trouble." Rumi showed the demons a confident half smile.
Mira lunged first — her staff a blur — thrusting at the demon in front of her with raw force. The creature caught it on its jagged blade, but before it could push back, she twisted with dancer’s precision, the shaft whirling in a tight arc that whipped past Rumi’s shoulder.
Rumi was already moving. Anticipating the spin, she angled her sword in a diagonal slash, cutting across the rightmost demon’s chest. The impact disolved him, forcing the others to falter.
Mira let the momentum carry her around Rumi’s stance, pivoting low. The butt of her staff cracked against another demon’s knee with a sharp hook-strike, dropping it to one side. Rumi, seizing the window Mira had opened, stepped forward into the gap — her blade flashing in a controlled, perfect slice — and cut through the head of the demon Mira had unbalanced.
Two collapsed instantly. One exploded into black smoke, shrieking as it dissolved into the night.
The push was seamless, it looked rehearsed, as if their instincts had found each other in the chaos. Mira flashed a smirk over her shoulder. " You are welcome." — breathless, reckless — before darting off toward her next target, pressing toward Celine’s flank.
Rumi didn’t answer but the tip of her lips curled up, only resettled her blade in silence, her focus cutting sharper than her steel. She lunged to the small group of demons in front of the bridge.
And still, through the park, the anthem carried on — each beat syncing to the rise and fall of their fight.
Through the chaos of the fight, as smoke rolled across the battlefield and swallowed the bridge, two black figures appeared. They moved along the handrails with flawless balance and precision, shadows that seemed to glide above the carnage.
Celine, still on the center of the battlefield, spotted them first. Her voice cut through the clash of steel and screams:
“Fall back! Together—by me!”
Rumi and Mira heard the order and scanned the smoke-choked field. That’s when they saw them: two jeoseung sajas—human-looking demons clad in black, from long coats to brimmed hats. Their resemblance to the Saja Boys was uncanny, unsettling. The likeness stung Rumi so sharply that, for a wild instant, she half-expected them to break into a K-pop routine.
Mira carved herself a path with ease, her raw power clearing the swarming lesser demons. In seconds, she was at Celine’s side.
But Rumi had no such luxury. One of the figures vanished in a puff of pink smoke—only to reappear just behind her.
“What? You don’t want to talk to us?” he teased, leaning close.
Rumi struck fast, but her blade cut nothing but air. He was gone again.
The second figure’s laugh echoed across the bridge. He lounged on the handrail, legs dangling over the drop as if gravity itself bent to amuse him.
“We take one down and they send another? That’s cheating.”
The first demon joined in, both of them laughing now—mocking, delighted. The demon's laughter was a cold splash of reality, dousing the flames of her fury but igniting a deeper, more insidious fire. Her eyes widen as she realized the truth behind their words.
They weren't just taunting her; they were referencing Zoey and it scraped across her raw nerves, feeding the golden rim flickering at the edge of her vision.
The memory seared itself into Rumi's mind like a branding iron. Zoey's battered body, the blood-soaked pavement, the sound of her own screams echoing through the streets.
The jeoseung sajas hissed in unison, closing into Rumi who swang at them unable to connect. One leaned close enough for Rumi to smell the rot on its breath.
“shouldn't you thank us?"
Her voice faltered, then broke, the song cut short. For the first time, silence poured from her throat where strength should have been.
Another’s grin split impossibly wide.
“Your trio always sang sweeter at two...” With a blink both were back on the handrails.
Rumi’s blood boiled, heat rising like fire in her veins, expanding on her skin. She clenched her teeth, trying to stem the tide of the anger clawing at her, begging for release, but she knew that giving in would only lead to more pain, more regret. Holding her ground despite the distractions.
Mira’s voice sounding loud inside her head "You’re so busy feeling everything you forget to think. That’s going to get someone killed.” and she let it play. She hung to it. Like a mantra.
She turned and forced her way back toward Celine, but the path closed around her with snapping jaws and claws. Demons swarmed to block her escape, feeding on her hesitation. And above them, their leaders sat watching.
“Leaving so soon?” one crooned, tilting his head like a curious bird.
“Was it something we said?” the other chimed, voice dripping sugar.
They leaned together, shoulders touching, faces twisted into mirror images of fake hurt. For a breath, they held the pose—pouting, wide-eyed, as if mocking human grief itself. Then their mouths split into identical grins, laughter spilling out in eerie harmony, too perfect to be real.
“They’re isolating her” Celine snapped, her eyes narrowing as she caught the rhythm in the swarm’s movements. Without losing a second, or looking at Mira she called "Pierce the center, I'll handle the flanks"
Mira’s jaw clenched. Her aggression pressed to explode through the lines. But she knew Celine was her best bet to keep Rumi safe, and for that she was willing rein herself in.
They dived into the chaos, blades and power striking in unison. The harmony wasn’t seamless—Celine’s blade sometimes veered too close, Mira’s power sometimes forced Celine to pivot—but the urgency bound them together, each mistake corrected by instinct and will.
They weren’t just fighting back. They were closing ranks. Like sharp arrow head piercing their path towards towrds the bridge. Every motion said the same thing: you’ll go through us first.
When one demon forced Rumi back, teeth bared, Celine didn’t hesitate. She surged forward, blade flashing as she cut a demon down before it could lunge for Rumi. Mira followed with a sweeping strike of raw power, shattering a cluster of lesser demons into ash.
Rumi's fury curdling into shame at her own silence, silence stained by the image of Zoey standing in the quiet kitchen, seeing them leave without her.
She staggered behind Celine and Mira , her claws tight agains her sword. But she felt it—the way their presence steadied the air around her. They had drawn the line of the battlefield with their own bodies, and that Line kept expanding as they stepped in front of her. They weren’t letting her fall. Not here. Not like this.
Rumi’s knees buckled, her sword clattering against the stones. For a heartbeat she tried to stand tall, to keep her mask intact—but her body betrayed her, folding under the weight of exhaustion and the tremor ripping through her chest. She gasped for air, eyes wide with the kind of raw fear she never let anyone see. The fight was done, but inside her the battle still raged.
The sajas only smirked at the sight, their dark shapes hovering just beyond the battlefield. One tilted its head as though savoring the unraveling before it. “How delicate,” it purred, voice silk laced with venom. “Even steel bends when pressed.” The other chuckled low, their laughter carrying like distant bells as their shadows peeled back into the dark.
Their retreat wasn’t rushed—it was deliberate, a predator’s confidence in knowing the wound it left behind would fester long after it was gone. Their final words echoed, dripping with mockery:
“Next time, little flame, bring a stronger mask.”
Then the park was empty, silence falling heavier than the dust.
Celine was the first to move, dropping to one knee beside Rumi and bracing her shoulders before she could collapse fully. No words, no scolding—just her steady presence, grounding. Mira followed without hesitation, her staff lowered but her gaze unflinching, scanning the darkness as if daring it to return.
Between them, an unspoken pact passed like a current. They didn’t need to voice it—protect her until she could breathe again, shield her until she could stand.
Whatever storms Rumi carried inside, they would take the weight until her hands stopped shaking.
Rumi pressed a trembling palm to her chest, fighting for air, her throat tight. But when she looked up, she found not pity in their eyes, only fierce resolve. That silent vow wrapped around her like armor stronger than anything steel could give.
Her fists clenched, nails biting into her palms. The scream stayed buried. And in the hush that followed, with their presence bracing her on either side, she let her body betray her heart. For the first time since the day started, she shook.
Notes:
I just love fight scenes to much to keep them of the battlefield.
(Kinda had to force myself to publish this one after revising over and over for a couple days.
Is it perfect? No.
But it set the scene to the best of my ability.)Thanks for reading
Chapter 13: Tremors beneath
Summary:
Big steps for the team.
Chapter Text
The elevator doors slid open and Rumi, Mira, and Celine stepped inside.
Celine stayed closer to Rumi than usual—both to steady her and to reassure herself that she was safe, right there beside her. For a fleeting moment, she saw the sweet five-year-old who once hid behind her during award ceremonies. But the vision slipped away as her eyes caught the colorful patterns across Rumi’s cheek. She studied them with a bittersweet smile.
Rumi had been still and quiet the entire way back. The lines along her skin once again scattered light in prismatic colors, though darker traces still burned across her shoulders and chest. Shame had been drowned first by fear, then by concern—but even those were slowly softened by the quiet relief of having Celine and Mira beside her. Her gaze stayed fixed on Mira’s back, steady in front of her.
Mira leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her reflection watching from the steel doors. Her fingers pressed tight against her arms as she replayed the encounter in her mind, searching for meaning. They needed to talk—but not here. Not yet.
The silence pressed heavy until Mira broke it with a deliberate sigh.
“You’re staring.”
The sudden words startled both Rumi and Celine.
“Just wondering if this was good enough for you,” Rumi said softly, pushing the thoughts crowding her mind aside. “Or if you still plan to make me your punching bag.” A side-smile flickered—weak, never reaching her eyes.
Celine’s gaze sharpened, flicking between them. Her shoulder shifted subtly until she stood a half-step in front of Rumi.
Mira snorted. “Sparring can wait,” she said flatly, just as the elevator doors opened into their living room.
They weren’t even fully open before Celine lunged forward.
The couch lay upside down, belongings scattered across the floor—
and Zoey.
“Zoey!” Celine’s voice cracked sharp with panic as she surged toward her, but both Mira and Rumi grabbed her shoulders, holding her back.
Startled, Zoey spun, hands raised in defense. “I told you to stop!” she snapped, gesturing at the blue tiger now nudging the coffee table upright. “I was just trying to get him back into your room, Rumi. I swear!”
“You what?!” Celine’s eyes widened, outrage slicing across her face. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, furious bursts as she swung between Zoey, the beast, and Rumi—like she couldn’t decide which one was more impossible.
Rumi instinctively sought Mira’s reaction, hoping for a panic matching her own. But Mira only grinned, lips curled in mischief, her whole posture alive with amusement.
“Oh, this is going to be good,” she muttered, releasing Celine.
The older woman didn’t budge. Her muscles were locked, every nerve vibrating with refusal. Mira strolled closer to Zoey, curious, while Celine stayed rooted where she was—shock clashing with something darker in her expression.
Celine’s gaze finally landed on Rumi. The purple-haired girl fidgeted, shrinking beneath it. Her sleeve twisted between her fingers before she whispered, “They’re not dangerous. They… visit sometimes.”
“The demon?” Celine spat the word like poison, her composure snapping into raw disbelief. “The demon visits? Sometimes?” Her voice pitched low, hard. Her eyes scoured the apartment walls as if expecting another set of claws to peel out from the plaster. “You mean to tell me you actually let demons come and go here? In your home?”
“They don’t live here,” Rumi said quickly, shoulders tight. “They just… visit.”
Celine’s lips pressed thin, trembling with the effort to keep herself contained. Her jaw tightened, the lines in her face deepening. She dragged a hand across the crease of her blouse, a nervous ritual as much as an attempt to compose herself. The disgust in her eyes lingered on the beast, but when she finally exhaled, it was through her nose, clipped and furious—like she was forcing herself to choke the hatred back down.
Because the girls weren’t screaming. Because they weren’t afraid. Because she couldn’t afford to lose her grip.
Her voice, when it came, was ice over fire: “We already have enough to discuss without including your… demon pet.”
She turned on her heel, spine rigid, and strode to the dining table. Sitting stiffly, she angled her chair so the tiger never left her line of sight. Only then did she point to the other seats, her authority sharp as glass.
“Sit. Now.”
Mira didn’t hesitate—she dropped into the chair across from Celine with the ease of someone who thrived under tension.
Rumi lingered, then turned to the tiger. She bent low and whispered a soft apology: “You should leave.” The creature rumbled, then sank through the floor as though the world itself had opened for it. She heard Celine sight with relief and only then did she follow, settling on her guardian's right.
Zoey hovered, caught staring. Rumi and Mira looked battered—cuts, dirt, hair disheveled—Rumi worst of all. Celine, impossibly, looked composed: hair immaculate, blouse neat, only the faintest trace of mud betraying the battlefield they’d walked through. The buzzing in Zoey’s head grew louder as she reached for her chair.
But before she could sit, Celine’s voice cut like a blade. “Zoey, it’s not necessary—”
“She’s staying.”
The words came from Mira and Rumi together, perfectly in sync. Not defiant—polite, but immovable.
Zoey froze, heart skipping. Then warmth bloomed where loneliness had been, relief flooding her chest. For the first time since she’d been left behind, she wasn’t outside looking in. Her sisters had kept their word. She sat down at Celine’s left.
“Are you okay?” Zoey asked, concern pouring through her voice. What could be so urgent that Celine moved past the tiger without pause?
“It didn’t go to well,” Rumi mumbled evasively, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.
“It would be fair to call it an ambush,” Celine explained calmly. “They were prepared, waiting for us.”
Zoey swallowed hard. For a moment, Celine’s voice blurred into Rumi’s, echoing the night she’d once rambled about her attack. The buzzing grew louder, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. But Zoey bit her tongue to stay present. Mira and Rumi wanted her here. She wouldn’t let them down. She couldn’t unravel now—not when she finally had her seat at the table.
“I mean, demons always try to… kill us. What made this different?” Zoey tried for curiosity, but her voice trembled.
Mira caught it instantly, her leg brushing against Zoey’s under the table—a small, grounding touch.
“To begin with,” the pink-haired girl started, leaning back with her arms folded, “they were organized. Not each demon acting mindlessly. They waited. They held formation. It was—almost—” her lips curved in a sly smirk, pride glinting in her eyes, “hard to break their lines.”
“They were being led,” Celine agreed, voice steady.
“And then there were… them,” Rumi added, her tone sharp with impatience, unable to ignore the elephant in the room. “Those two jeoseung sajas.” She glanced at Zoey, her shoulders stiffening. “It was like the Saja Boys came back, straight out of that last concert.”
“New Saja Boys?” Curiosity sparked in Zoey’s voice, brighter than it should have been. “How did they look?”
Rumi raised an eyebrow, her gaze narrowing on her, the corner of her lip twitching like she might call her out. Zoey flushed, shifting uncomfortably in her seat as Mira snorted into her drink and Rumi rolled her eyes.
Celine, unbothered, cut through the subtext. “Tall. Thin. Black hair. Unsettling.”
The word lingered. Rumi shifted in her chair, posture tightening as if she’d been jolted. Her fingers froze mid-tap against the table, breath catching for a beat too long. Her eyes, usually sharp and alert, lost focus—drifting somewhere far away.
“Uncanny,” she whispered, almost to herself.
“Oh. So like Jinu,” Zoey said, her voice dipped with disappointment.
“Not rea—Rumi?” Mira leaned forward, her voice sharp as glass. She had caught the moment instantly: the way Rumi’s jaw had gone rigid, how her knuckles whitened as she gripped the table edge, the pulse ticking fast at her throat. Mira’s gaze locked on her like a hawk, unwilling to let the shift slide unnoticed.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward the purple-haired girl. Her gaze was lost somewhere far away as the dark patterns across her skin crept higher, spreading toward her jaw.
Rumi exhaled—a shaky, reluctant sound that stretched long enough to alert the others she’d been holding her breath. She looked up. The three people seated next to her weren’t just comrades. They were her family. Everyone she had left. Everyone she cared about. And she was going to keep them safe, no matter what.
Her lips parted, steady now, though her hands twisted together under the table. “They were uncanny. Their theatrics, their perfectly matched moves, the way they bent their voices. They knew what to say, how to say it, and exactly when to strike. They were fast. Unbelievably good at dodging. They moved as one. With perfect understanding of the battlefield.”
Her voice carried none of the trembling of her body. It was calm, analytical—like she had shifted herself into a different register just to keep from breaking. Although the images of their taunting were replaying in her brain.
“That’s good intel and everything, but—Rumi—your patterns…” Zoey’s voice faltered as her eyes traced the crawling marks down Rumi’s neck.
“I know.” Rumi’s reply snapped sharper than she intended. Her shoulders hunched, then loosened as she added, softer, “Believe me, I know.” Her mouth twitched, almost a grimace, but she forced a thin smile to follow. “I’m trying to control it. Can we just… not talk about this right now?” Her tone wasn’t evasive. It was pleading, the edge of someone begging for a reprieve rather than a way out.
Zoey's gaze dropped, her eyes skimming across the table as if searching for an escape from the tension. Her shoulders sagged slightly, and she nodded in understanding, the movement barely perceptible. The soft crease between her eyebrows deepened, a silent acknowledgment of Rumi's plea.
Celine didn’t answer right away. She leaned back slightly, arms folded, her brow furrowing as she studied Rumi’s trembling jaw and the restless curl of her hands against the tabletop. When she finally spoke, her tone was measured, deliberate—like a steady drumbeat meant to hold rhythm.
“Control is good. But clarity is better. Don’t burn yourself out fighting what’s happening inside you. We need your mind sharp, Rumi. That’s what keeps us alive.”
Her words weren’t scolding, but they landed with the weight of command. The faintest crease softened at the corner of her eyes—something only Mira caught, something that betrayed her worry even as she played the role of mentor.
Mira reached across and placed a firm hand on Rumi’s shoulder, grounding her. “You were closer to them than us. What else can you tell us?” she asked, steering the conversation away as if by instinct. But her eyes flicked toward Celine—silent, watchful.
Rumi nodded once, swallowing hard. She kept her eyes on the patterns blooming across her hands, but the rigidity in her shoulders eased under Mira’s touch, and under Celine’s calm, implacable steadiness.
“It was like fighting with clones,” Rumi murmured. “They were strong—too strong. Stopping my strikes like they’d rehearsed them a thousand times, pushing my arms back like I was a child. They read the field too easily. Slipping through the lines, weaving in and out of my reach like the chaos around us didn’t exist.”
Her voice thinned, lowered. “I struggled just to hold my ground.” She risked a glance at Zoey, the words landing like a confession. “When I tried to retreat… even then, I couldn’t stay on my feet against those Taunting Twins.”
“It’s that what we’re calling them? The Taunting Twins?” Zoey asked, her voice thin, searching for levity but not finding it.
“You were outnumbered,” Celine said, her tone even but sharp-edged. “It wasn’t just the Twins but the demons cutting you off from us. That was a stacked hand. And they weren’t fighting clean, were they?”
“No.” The word came out like a sigh dragged across glass. Rumi’s jaw worked, teeth tight. “They wouldn’t stop talking about you, Zoey. Saying you were… gone. They reminded me of my mistake...They pressed until I cracked—like they wanted to see it. Watching. Savoring.” The last word curdled in her mouth. She faltered, breath shuddering before forcing the rest out. “And—”
Her eyes darted between Zoey and Mira, as if seeking permission to speak. “Mira… remember how we said Zoey was bound to get hurt that night? Like it was inevitable?”
Mira’s eyebrow rose, but her hand on Rumi’s shoulder didn’t loosen. The other hovered near Zoey, steady, ready, like she could catch either one of them if they collapsed under this weight. “Yes,” she said, careful.
“They implied…” Rumi’s voice shrank to a whisper. Her eyes locked on Zoey. “They implied they were the ones behind your attack.”
The air dropped heavy.
Zoey went silent. Her hands clamped over the table, knuckles white, trembling as though bracing against an invisible tide. The buzzing in her skull sharpened, then warped—splitting into jagged echoes of breath, screams, fragments of the night she tried so hard to bury. The smell of burned candy in the smoke clouds arround her. The tearing pain. The crushing presure that kept growing on her chest. The laugh that had followed. It crashed over her, unstoppable.
Her body pitched forward, gasping, eyes darting like a cornered animal.
“Zoey!” Mira caught her instantly, guiding her into her frame. She wrapped arms around her shoulders, grounding her against her chest. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. We’re okay. We’re together. Here, now. Just breathe with me.” Her voice steadied, deliberate. She kept her rhythm slow, measured. Then softer, near Zoey’s ear: “Pretend she isn’t here.” Mira’s gaze flicked toward Rumi on that last word, like the message was also for her.
Rumi froze. Every instinct screamed at her to run forward, to fight, to protect—but the memory of Zoey collapsing under the blow, the sight of her own vision fracturing with golden cracks, the echo of her voice breaking mid-song—struck her like chains. Her throat clenched, useless, ashamed of the demon’s rasp that still haunted the edges of her voice. She hugged her arms tight across her chest, trembling.
If she opened her mouth, the honmoon might splinter again. If she moved, the claws might push through her skin. If she reached out, she might shatter something else—Celine, Mira, Zoey, herself.
She was supposed to be the leader, but she couldn’t even stand on her own two feet. Zoey had been targeted, maybe because of her, maybe because she wasn’t strong enough to shield her—and she had placed Celine and Mira at risk too, because they had to rescue her instead of trusting her to fight beside them.
The guilt pressed heavier than any wound.
Shame coiled through her chest, dragging her shoulders inward until she felt small, smaller, vanishing. She wanted to find the words, to mend, to be what the others needed, but all she could hear was the silence she had forced on herself. All she could feel was the weight of being broken when she should have been strong.
And so she stayed there—arms wrapped tight, trembling, watching—convinced that the most dangerous thing she could do right now was try.
Celine’s lips pressed to a hard line, silence weighing heavier than steel. She stood unmoving, but inside her chest the realization cut deep. She had taught them strength, drilled into them the creed: our faults and flaws must never be seen. She had burned that lesson into them like iron, and they believed it. Now, Zoey and Rumi were breaking—fighting impossibly hard not to show it, even as it ripped them apart.
And Celine finally saw it for what it was: not resilience, but children left with wounds that never healed.
Hiding, “fixing,” surviving.
Nothing more than burning edges of scars that refused to close.
Notes:
This 4 pov thing was crazy hard to keep together.
Please leve some feedback.
Trying to decide if I should stick to 1 pov per chapter and just switch who it is. Or keep trying this way.
And as always, thanks for reading.
Chapter 14: Gummy worms.
Summary:
When fragile normalcy becomes a survival tool.
Chapter Text
The scene unfolded in front of Celine’s eyes. She sat there, half-lost in her own head, half-letting the images sink in with a slow, dawning realization.
Rumi had managed to get her patterns under control, the flickering lines retreating until they clung only to her chest and arms. She pressed her hands into her own skin—too firmly, grounding herself—yet still found enough breath to lean toward Zoey. Her voice came out weak, hesitant, but steady in conviction.
“You’re safe, Zoey. We’re here.”
The storm of emotions had passed, leaving behind a fragile calm.
Mira eventually released Zoey, who stepped back, her eyes red-rimmed but no longer brimming with tears. Celine handed her a steaming cup of tea, the aroma filling the air as Zoey wrapped her hands around it, seeking comfort in its warmth. Rumi mirrored her actions, her own cup cradled in her palms.
As the silence between them grew, Mira and Celine retreated, leaving the two girls to their thoughts.
The soft clinking of spoons against ceramic was the only sound as Zoey and Rumi sat down on the couch. Their eyes stayed fixed on the surface of the liquid, as if their minds were somewhere else, spiraling down paths too personal to share aloud.
Across from them, Celine nursed her own cup, though her attention wasn’t on it. She was watching Mira instead—watching the way Mira kept glancing toward the couch, holding everyone, everything, together. Celine opened her mouth, fumbling for something that might pass as validation.
“You calmed them down.”
It came out flat, clinical, almost like an observation more than comfort. Her arms folded tighter across her chest, the gesture betraying both her unfamiliarity with speaking that way and the sting of realizing how badly it landed.
Mira caught it anyway. She smirked, not unkindly. If anything, there was a flicker of satisfaction in seeing Celine out of her element. “They just need time,” she said simply. “They’ll be okay.” She sounded certain—though her slumped shoulders and the shadows beneath her eyes betrayed how much it cost to keep that certainty alive.
For once, it was Celine who read Mira. She saw the exhaustion. The tight shoulders, and sharp movements. The weight she carried. And something shifted quietly inside her.
“They are strong,” Celine stated.
She believed the three hunters she had chosen were the best possible candidates. She picked them for their potential and trained them toward perfection. Even when that 'perfection' was what carved these cracks into them. Her eyes settling on Rumi. It hurt more than she wanted to admit.
“Having to hide it from you makes it worse for them,” Mira said, blunt but not cruel. She spoke like someone pointing at a gray sky and stating it would rain. Nothing more, nothing less.
Celine’s fingers tightened around the cup in her hands until it creaked. The truth in Mira’s words stung because she had only ever wanted to make them strong. Yet somewhere in that drive, she had broken something delicate.
Her gaze shifted back to Mira. Out of the three, she was the one still standing. Part of it was her nature, part of it was the absence of the fresh traumas that hounded Rumi and Zoey. Still—Celine could see the lines forming in the pink-haired girl’s stillness. The way her eyes lingered on the others wasn’t just loyalty. It was fear.
And in a flash of clarity it struck her, what that word exchange between Mira and Rumi in the elevator really ment.
“You need an outlet,” Celine said after a beat, almost surprising herself with the offer. Her tone was still blunt, but there was intent behind it now. “Come spar with me. It’ll help.”
Mira tilted her head, startled. The faintest ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. Not amusement—something closer to recognition. She understood what Celine was really saying. Don’t let it break you here.
Mira's lips twitched once before she spoke." I would like to." She shook her head. “But if I leave, they’ll notice.” Her eyes flicked toward Rumi, then Zoey, then back again as if tethered by invisible threads. “I can’t—not right now.”
Celine followed her gaze, the weight of it pressing down. She wanted to argue, to insist that Mira needed this, that strength demanded release before it rotted inside. But the way Mira sat—spine taut, gaze fixed on the others like a shield that refused to lower—made it clear.
“Then when they’re asleep,” she said. Not a suggestion. A promise.
Mira finally looked at her. And for the first time that night, her eyes softened—not from relief, but from the rare understanding that Celine wasn’t asking, she was waiting.
She let that promise hang in the air.
Mira didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to. She set her tea down with a soft clink and crossed the room, her steps unhurried but sure. She lowered herself into a squat in front of the couch, close enough for both girls to feel her presence without it being heavy. One hand reached out and settled gently on Rumi’s knee—solid, grounding.
“Hey, troublemaker.” Her voice softened as her eyes flicked toward Zoey. “We promised you a movie night, remember?”
Both girls turned to her.
Zoey’s gaze was still dulled by exhaustion, but there was the faintest flicker of curiosity there, as if Mira had cracked open a window in a sealed room.
Rumi’s eyes, distant and unfocused for so long, blinked once—gratefulness slipping through the numbness she wore like armor.
“Pick a movie while I get some popcorn,” Mira said, steady but light, as if she were coaxing them into something normal. Her hand lingered on Rumi’s knee a heartbeat longer before she stood. “You don’t have to eat it. But a movie night should have popcorn.”
“And gummy worms?” Zoey’s whisper was so faint it barely carried, fragile and uncertain, as though she feared the world might shatter if she asked for too much.
Mira’s lips curved into a real smile. “And gummy worms.”
She moved with quiet efficiency—turning on the TV, dropping the remote right between Rumi and Zoey, not forcing either of them but giving them a choice. For a long moment, Rumi just stared at the plastic rectangle, her fingers hovering over it like her brain was still booting back up after too long in the dark. Then, almost on instinct, she pressed play on Zoey’s favorite movie.
Zoey’s head tipped, coming to rest against Rumi’s shoulder, a silent thank you she didn’t have the words for. Rumi didn’t flinch or pull away. She welcomed the warmth. Just letting it be, a fragile truce in the middle of their exhaustion.
Mira slid onto the couch beside Zoey, draping one arm around her, while her hand rested lightly on Rumi's shoulder. She didn’t crowd them—just enough warmth and contact to remind them they weren’t alone. The bowl of popcorn sat untouched in her lap.
Zoey clutched the unopened bag of gummy worms like it was a lifeline, the crinkle of the plastic soft in the quiet.
She didn’t eat a single one. She didn’t even try.
She just held onto them, clutching the comfort of something familiar.
None of them were really watching the movie. Their eyes flickered to the screen now and then, but what held them was each other—the shifts in posture, the flickers of fear crossing a face, the fragile comfort of shared silence.
The film’s sound was nothing but cover, a thin veil over the tension hanging heavy in the room.
For a fleeting moment, Zoey's head tilted , and it seemed as though she was pulling away from Rumi. But before she could drift further, Rumi's hand instinctively grasped Zoey's sleeve, a gentle, wordless plea for her to stay.
From the other couch, Celine watched them. There was a pang in her chest she almost didn’t want to name. Because this was the real Mira, Rumi, and Zoey. The sides of themselves they had never let her see before. Raw. Unmasked. Human. She felt like an intruder in a moment too intimate for her to deserve.
By the time the movie rolled credits, Rumi and Zoey had both slipped into sleep. Zoey’s cheek pressed against Rumi’s shoulder, Rumi’s temple resting gently against the crown of Zoey’s head.
Mira eased herself upright, careful not to disturb them, while Celine rose quietly, pulling a blanket from the armrest and spreading it over both girls, tucking the edge in with more tenderness than she meant to show.
The sight made something inside her twist.
They looked so small like this—unguarded, clinging to each other for warmth. She had wanted to forge weapons. But what she had in front of her weren’t weapons.They were children, bruised and bleeding beneath the weight she had heaped on them.
Mira hovered her thumb over the remote when turning the tv off, it slipped, almost dropping but caught mid air. The room dimming to the soft amber of the lamp.
And under that glow, Celine finally saw it—Her face, usually a perfect mask, wavered. Not with collapse, but with the grit of someone holding back a storm. The fracture were there, but they weren’t only weakness—they were pressure, the dangerous promise of a break that would come jagged and loud.
Celine’s chest tightened. If Mira snapped, it wouldn’t be a quiet unraveling. It would be fury finally unleashed, the kind that could burn her up—or burn everything around her.
And Celine wasn’t sure whether to reach out or stay back, afraid that either choice might be the spark that set her off.
Mira's fists flexed against her knees, unclenching only to curl again, restless. The frustration and anger that had been simmering all day pressed against her ribs, begging for a crack to spill through. She exhaled, steady but dangerous.
“Celine.”
Mira’s voice was lower than usual, roughened at the edges, like she was swallowing something sharp. She turned her head just enough to catch Celine’s eye, shadows cutting across her face.
“Is the offer still up?”
The room seemed to hold its breath. Celine knew what Mira meant—not comfort, not counsel. She was asking for release, for a fight sharp enough to bleed the storm out before it burned her alive.
Celine let the silence hang just long enough to make the answer feel like a vow.
“Yes.”
Chapter 15: The anchor
Summary:
That's how anchors work. They sink... so the rest can stay afloat
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The dance studio was clean, minimalist. Hardwood floors, currently covered with a tatami mat. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined the walls, throwing back every detail.
Mira stared at her own reflection from across the room. Her eyes were sharper than usual, jaw clenched so tightly it felt locked in place. A trembling lip.
Her whole body screamed for release—muscles coiled, mind racing.
Her heart pounded so hard it drowned out everything else, a heavy thud against her ears. It was a miracle she’d given Celine even a minute to change into the backup outfit Rumi kept at the studio: a gray compression shirt and sweatpants.
When Celine finally stepped back in, her eyes caught the tremor in Mira’s fists. An alarm rang in her mind. Mira’s gaze locked on her instantly, her support leg bouncing up and down in a restless twitch, like pacing in place without moving. Celine felt her own hesitation but buried it. She knew what she had agreed to.
Mira felt it—the way her body was beginning to take over her mind. Her mouth was dry, chest rising too fast with every breath. She wanted to warn Celine, to ask if this was really okay, to make sure she understood what she was stepping into.
She fought to push the adrenaline down long enough to form words as Celine’s steady steps carried her closer.
Instead, the moment Celine set foot on the mat, the word slipped out cold and sharp:
“Sorry.”
Half a heartbeat later, she had already lunged at her mentor.
Celine’s stance shifted sharp, weight curled onto the balls of her feet, knees soft but ready. The world narrowed into instinct as Mira’s fist cut the air toward her cheek. She slipped past it, pivoting on light steps, already behind her. Her chest clenched; Mira wasn’t sparring. She was detonating.
“Mira,” she tried, voice level. No answer. Just the guttural sound of breath drawn too hard, too ragged.
Mira spun, heel slicing through space, a kick wild with desperation.
Celine slid out of range, the whip of wind grazing her ribs.The power in it was staggering—controlled Mira could dent steel with that strike. Like this, untethered, she could kill.
Her body was fire, each motion a storm that demanded someone—anyone—to ground it. She wasn’t aiming to land clean. She was aiming to burn.
Another swing, raw and unmeasured, cut through the dark. Celine dipped low, redirecting the momentum with a brush of her forearm, guiding Mira’s fury away from her own center. But the motion didn’t defuse it—it only lit the fuse further. Mira landed hard, rolled, came up with her shoulders squared, jaw tight, every muscle thrumming.
The elegance of her art was fraying into something jagged.
“Mira—” Celine’s voice cracked through the clash, firm but low, trying to cut through the chaos. But Mira didn’t hear. Or wouldn’t. She lunged, fists like thunder, each strike faster, heavier, like she could pound the grief out of her chest if she just hit hard enough.
Celine moved without thought now, breath syncing to the rhythm of survival. She refused to meet power with power. Not against Mira. Her dodges grew tighter, her redirections sharper, always brushing past instead of blocking, always deflecting instead of clashing.
Mira's fists flew in a frenzied flurry, each punch a lightning-fast strike that Celine dodged with fluid precision. Celine's body was a blur of motion, her feet dancing across the mat as she wove and bobbed around Mira's attacks. Her hands flashed out in swift, economical movements, redirecting Mira's blows with a subtle touch that belied the violence of the moment.
As Mira launched herself forward, Celine sidestepped with a swift pivot, her weight shifting onto the balls of her feet. Mira's leg snapped out in a powerful round kick, the arc of her foot whipping toward Celine's head, and Celine countered with a deflection of her forearm, guiding Mira's momentum past her ear. The kick whizzed past Celine's head, the rush of air grazing her skin, as she used Mira's momentum against her, redirecting the force of the kick to leave Mira momentarily off-balance.
The two moved in a whirlwind of motion, their bodies clashing and separating in a deadly dance. Mira's face was twisted in a snarl, her eyes blazing with fury, while Celine's expression was a mask of calm focus, her eyes locked on Mira's movements with an intensity that seemed to anticipate every blow.
The air was thick with tension, the only sound the soft whoosh of fabric and the heavy thud of footsteps on the mat.
But then—too close.
Mira’s knuckles grazed her jaw, the sting sharp enough to snap the air between them.
Celine’s vision blinked white for half a second, she stumbled.
If Mira had followed through, if she’d aimed true instead of blind, that blow would’ve shattered bone.
The slip snapped Mira into the present. Her eyes widened, fury cracking into something rawer. And then, instead of reining it in, she let go.
A scream ripped out of her, not a word but a sound—like glass shattering from the inside. She struck the ground with both fists, the impact hard enough to hear the wooden floor creaking under the mat.
And then there was nothing. Just Mira, shaking, fists still pressed into the mat, her shoulders quivering from the aftershock of her own release.
Celine stepped in slow, her balance flaking but moves stilled controlled. She didn’t lift her hands. She didn’t flinch. She only lowered herself enough to reach, steady as stone.
“I’m here,” Celine said quietly, though her pulse was a drum in her throat. “Burn if you need to. I’ll take it. I’ll hold it. But you don’t get to lose yourself.”
The words landed where no strike could. Mira’s breath hitched, trembling—not attacking now, but unraveling. Celine caught her before she collapsed sideways, not as an enemy, not even as a partner in combat, but as someone who had sworn, silently, to shield both her and Rumi until they could stand again.
Mira stayed folded over, hands still braced against the mat, breath dragging out in ragged bursts. Sweat ran down her temples, stinging her eyes, but she didn’t wipe it away. She couldn’t look at Celine—not yet. Her chest felt hollow and too full all at once, a twisting ache of shame and relief tangled together. "I almost—” Her voice cracked. She couldn’t finish. Couldn’t admit it. Not out loud.
Celine crouched nearby, close enough to be steadying but not so close that it caged her in. Her jaw still throbbed faintly from the grazing hit, but she let the pain settle in silence. She had seen Mira fight demons without blinking, yet here she was shaking like she’d survived something worse. Celine exhaled through her nose, controlled and even, anchoring them both. “You didn’t,” she said finally, firm but not sharp. “You stopped.”
Mira’s head dropped lower, strands of damp hair clinging to her face. The words pressed in, both a mercy and a weight she wasn’t sure she could carry. She wanted to argue, to spit back that she hadn’t stopped so much as broken apart. But the steadiness in Celine’s tone kept her still. Her fists loosened against the floor, the tremor in her arms easing by degrees. “I don’t know how long I can keep… this… from swallowing me whole" she admitted, the honesty raw, trembling.
Celine shifted then, sitting back on her heels, hands resting open on her knees. There was no lecture in her eyes, only a quiet promise, the same one she had carried into the fight: I’ll hold the line until you can stand again. She didn’t need to say it aloud this time. Mira felt it anyway, settling in her ribs like fragile steel.
Notes:
Could I have written just one chapter with the previous one, this one and the one I hope to publish tonight?
Yes I could have.
Chapter 16: What hurts the most
Summary:
Zoey and Rumi share a moment of raw vulnerability.
Chapter Text
Rumi had been awake for a while before she decided to move or open her eyes.
She felt the weight and warmth of someone resting against her, and for once, she allowed herself to sink into it. The sensation was rare—comfort, safety—something she had been starved of in recent days. She breathed it in before daring to face the present.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, she opened her eyes. Zoey lay curled on the sofa beside her, wrapped in a blanket. The youngest’s head and shoulder rested gently in her lap, her breath soft, steady.
A smile bloomed on Rumi’s face, warm enough to melt anyone—but instead, it melted her. She hadn’t realized how tight her jaw was until it loosened, or how rigid her shoulders had been until they finally dropped. Tension had become second nature. She brushed her hand over Zoey’s shoulder, delicate, careful.
Her gaze drifted to the faint glow of city lights bleeding into the dark living room. Her hand moved on its own, tracing absent patterns along Zoey’s shoulder while her thoughts dragged her inward:
I should’ve been stronger. My voice should’ve held. Instead, they watched me crack—again. Zoey almost died because of me once, and today I let them use her name to unravel me. Mira and Celine had to cover me. Shield me. Carry me.
Shards of memory slash through me—Zoey’s face pale and fading, my voice collapsing in my throat, every failure echoing louder than the last.
But Celine was there. Mira was there. They didn’t let me fall. They’ve never let me fall. Their strength wrapped around mine, steadying me.
So why am I always the one who breaks? Mira doesn’t falter. Zoey rises every time she’s struck down. Even Celine never wavers. What’s wrong with me?
I failed her once. She nearly died. Now even hearing her name splinters me apart. If I can’t hold steady, how can I protect her? What if next time I’m the reason one of them falls? Do I even deserve to be called their leader anymore?
They didn’t pity me. They stood with me. That should be enough. So why does it terrify me as much as it comforts me?
I can’t keep pretending I’m unshaken when I’m not. But if they see me fracture again—will they still trust me to stand beside them?
The thoughts spiraled, a storm without end. She was lost inside it, clinging to what scraps of herself she could still hold, desperate for a way back to solid ground.
And then—warmth shifted against her lap.
Zoey stirred, the blanket sliding slightly as she blinked awake. Rumi looked down just as her maknae’s sleepy eyes opened, hazy and half-lidded, gazing up at her.
Zoey had woken up to the tickling of Rumi’s light strokes on her shoulder. She breathed that wake-up like coffee in the morning—deep, steady, grounding.
She felt calm. Safe. The comfort of a quiet night, a blanket around her, and Rumi watching over her. Being affectionate with her.
She felt loved.
When Zoey looked at Rumi, she held her breath—a sharp inhale, short enough to be almost hidden, but not quiet enough to go unheard.
Rumi tensed under the maknae’s eyes, but she didn’t say anything. She had craved this—just a moment of peaceful intimacy—and she didn’t want to let it slip. She stared back at Zoey, who was easier to see under the faint purple glow.
Zoey’s eyes weren’t fixed on Rumi’s own but traced the lines scattered across her skin. The sight made her chest tighten, aching at the quiet evidence of her sister’s struggles.
“…Does it hurt?” Zoey asked softly, hesitant, as if afraid her voice might shatter the moment.
Rumi looked away. The weak light reflected back at her from the window, and she cursed herself for not realizing sooner how far the patterns had spread. Her body stayed rigid—hands locked in place, even her breath shallower—as if Zoey were a wild rabbit who would flee if she moved too quickly.
“Do you hate me?” The thought slipped free before Rumi could stop it, a whisper more fragile than she wanted to admit. Exposed. Vulnerable—not by choice.
Zoey didn’t miss a beat. She stretched out her farthest hand, crossing over her own chest until her fingers found Rumi’s. She held it steady, letting the touch speak before her words.
“I could never hate you, Rumi.” Her voice was quiet, certain—but there was a plea woven through it, as if she hoped Rumi would believe her.
Rumi flinched, then slowly let her eyes return to Zoey’s.
Zoey gave her a small smile. Her gaze drifted briefly to Rumi’s hand, brushing her thumb softly over one of the glowing marks, before looking back up.
“Does it hurt?” she asked again, her curiosity now colored by worry. “At the table… you looked like you were in pain.” The words tumbled out, unstoppable. “I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable when I said something—I wasn’t trying to call you out. I was just worried…” She faltered, realizing she had said too much, and fear flickered that Rumi would retreat and end the moment.
But instead, Rumi smiled. Something about Zoey rambling like that melted her heart. She took a deep breath, realizing Zoey probably felt just as vulnerable as she did.
“It does… but not really.” Rumi let her eyes drift toward the window; it made the words easier. “When they take over, it’s like this sting under my skin. Like a needle being moved inside the fold of your arm, searching for a vein…” She winced at her own choice of words, glancing at Zoey in regret—but the girl’s expression never shifted. She was still listening. “Sometimes that’s all I feel. Sometimes I don’t even notice it. It’s become… a feeling I know too well.” Her voice thinned with quiet sadness.
Zoey’s hand tightened around hers, an attempt to recreate Mira’s grounding touch. She didn’t say anything. The way she looked at Rumi said enough—she wanted to listen.
Not to fix, not to judge, not to pretend she understood. Just to listen.
“When they’re not moving… that’s when it hurts the most.” Rumi’s gaze stayed on the glass, purple light haloing her face. “Jinu told me once they’re born from our shame. I don’t know if it’s only that—but they definitely respond to it.” She hesitated, then turned back to Zoey, eyes heavy with the weight of confession. “They’re here because it hurts… or it hurts because they’re here. I don’t really know.”
“What are you ashamed of, Rumi?”
The words slipped from Zoey’s mouth before she could stop them.
Rumi’s gaze darted away, shoulders tightening. The shifting patterns along her skin pulsed faintly, betraying the storm inside.
Silence descended, heavy and charged. It thickened with every second, until it pressed down on Zoey’s chest like a weight.
She knew she had ruined it—pushed too hard. But she also wasn’t ready to let go of this fragile moment. It had been so long since they had been honest with each other, not since before the attack.
Zoey drew in a shaky breath, her foot tapping restlessly against the floor as she made a choice. The words came out in a rush, tumbling, tangled, raw:
“You didn’t even add me to the group chat,” she whispered.
Rumi turned, startled, half-formed words catching in her throat. Zoey’s voice cracked before she could answer.
“I’m not strong enough yet. I can’t fight. I can barely cross a room without pain. The stitches—they’ll dissolve, they say—but it feels like they never will. Like this tightness, this pull, will stay forever.”
Her breath shivered as she looked up, eyes wide.
“You must be tired of me. Bandaging me. Waiting for me. Pretending I’m not dead weight. But then—you both said I had a place. No debate. Like I belonged. Maybe I still do.”
The words tumbled out, desperate, shaking.
“I want to believe it. That I’m not a burden. But how many times can I expect you to risk everything for me? What if I’m the reason you’re breaking? What if one day you decide not to come back for me?”
Tears welled, spilling hot down her face.
“I can’t fight like you, Rumi. I’m not steady like Mira. I don’t carry myself like Celine. Why should I deserve to stand with you? But… you said I stay. Together. Maybe that means more than I’ve let myself believe.”
Her voice thinned to a whisper.
“I’m grateful you saved me. I’d be dead without you. But I don’t want to just be the one you save. I want to stand with you.”
Her confession hung between them—half dare, half plea. Zoey’s vulnerability was raw, unguarded, her heart laid bare.
And even as her voice faltered, the intent was clear: she was cracking herself open, exposing her deepest doubts—not to demand comfort, but to give Rumi permission. To shift the weight, to make the space safe again.
Rumi’s eyes widened slightly as Zoey’s words spilled out, a storm of emotions swirling inside her. A pang of guilt cut deep—she knew Zoey’s doubts and fears were, in part, her own fault. She wanted to reassure her, to say she was loved and needed, but her own feelings were raw, tangled, and hard to untangle.
For a moment she sat frozen, torn between the instinct to protect herself and the need to be honest with Zoey.
When she looked up, she found Zoey’s eyes—so full of vulnerability it made her chest ache. She couldn’t stay silent. She couldn’t leave Zoey to wonder.
Without thinking, Rumi reached out and brushed Zoey’s tears away, her touch feather-light. Her gaze softened as she drew a slow breath, shoulders loosening just enough to let her speak.
“Zoey…” Her voice came low, almost a whisper. “You’re not a burden to me. You’re my friend. My little sister. I’d do anything to protect you, to keep you safe.” Her throat tightened, but she pushed on. “Just like you’re always there protecting me. Like you’re doing right now.”
Zoey swallowed a sob and instead let out a shaky breath, leaning her cheek into Rumi’s hand. Rumi cupped her face gently, hesitantly, as though afraid the warmth might vanish. Her eyes flicked to their reflection in the window, and before she could stop herself, she forced the words to tumbled out.
“I keep breaking… and I’m ashamed. Ashamed of being the one who can’t hold it together.”
In the glass, the glowing patterns flickered brighter, as if echoing her confession. That was one of the two main reasons for her shame, but she didn’t belive she could put her inadequacy into words. Rumi kept her gaze on the reflection—because facing Zoey’s eyes meant risking pity, or disappointment, or worse: losing her trust.
Zoey gave a startled chuckle, too quick, then sat upright, flustered by her own reaction. “Sorry, Rumi—”
Rumi’s breath caught, panic flashing across her face, terrified of what might come next.
“I didn’t mean it badly,” Zoey said quickly, hands lifting in apology. “It just… threw me. You don’t see yourself the way we do. You’re literally the strongest person I know. Like—the strongest person in the world, actually.” She rambled, but her words were earnest. “Even Mira agrees. We talked about it after the Saja Boys thing. You’re… built different, Rumi.”
Relief loosened her features, but her chest still hammered.
Zoey steadied herself, her tone gentler now. “Anyone would break going through what you have. That doesn’t make you weak. You’ve been shattered and still found a way to come back—still saved us. That’s who you are. Even earlier, at the table—you were breaking, but you still reached for me.”
Her hand settled on Rumi’s shoulder, grounding. “If that’s not strength, Ru… then I don’t know what is.”
Rumi’s throat closed around a laugh-sob, tears blurring her eyes. She pulled Zoey into a hug so tight it startled them both.
For a few heartbeats, neither moved—just holding on, feeding off each other’s warmth and steadiness.
Then, slowly, Rumi let go.
The glowing patterns faded, purple draining into her skin as if they had never been there. She managed a shaky chuckle, looking at Zoey with a mixture of gratitude and disbelief.
“Any more crazy confessions?” she teased weakly.
But her smile faltered. A shadow had crept behind Zoey’s eyes.
“Can I… show you something?” Zoey asked quietly, withdrawing her hand. Her fingers fidgeted in her lap, thumbs twisting together.
Rumi swallowed hard, still reeling but bracing herself for whatever came next. “…Always.”
Zoey hesitated, then stood, giving a small motion for Rumi to follow. The little glances she cast back, the way her fingers twitched as she led the way to her room, fed into Rumi’s unease.
She followed anyway—heart pounding, ready for another turn on the roller coaster Zoey had just set into motion.
When they arrived at Zoey’s room, the only light came from the faint blue blink of her keyboard in sleep mode. Zoey walked in first and clicked on her desk lamp, filling the space with a cold, weak glow.
Rumi’s eyes went straight to the notebooks.
Her stomach twisted hard.
If Zoey was finally about to open up about her solo career, Rumi didn’t know what she would do. She had been bracing for that moment ever since she found out, running through dozens of imagined conversations, rehearsing what she’d say.
But this—this was not one of them.
She had thought this was something the three of them would face together, with Mira by her side.
Now her hands were sweating, her thoughts racing too fast to catch.
Zoey pulled a notebook from under her pillow. She looked at it, hesitant, then turned to Rumi.
“Please don’t judge me,” Zoey pleaded as she stepped closer.
“I’ve been wanting to tell you—or Mira, or someone…” Her voice broke off as her fingers dug into the cover. “This might be me asking for your help.” She finally extended it toward Rumi.
And Rumi froze. She hesitated just long enough for Zoey to notice.
“Rumi, please.”
The wide, fragile look in Zoey’s eyes broke through her defenses. Rumi reached out and took the notebook without thinking. Her hands shook as she opened to the first page, full of Zoey's messy handwriting.
/It’s not all the time.
But sometimes I feel it.
Actually, I hear it.
There’s this voice in my head telling me I died that day.
Telling me none of this is real.
It hits out of the blue, mostly in quiet moments. Sometimes even when I’m laughing with Mira, or mid-conversation while we’re eating together.
So this is my list of reasons I know I didn’t die:/
Rumi’s eyes darted down the page. The lines stacked one after another, raw and uneven.
/1: Mira has been nonstop nice with me. She’s never this nice. Not even my brain could make this up.
4: If I was dead and this was a dream, I would definitely have a pet turtle. Even better, she would be my roommate.
11: I took off a hoodie today and the scar burned. I hope I didn’t open it.
23: Orange and green gummy worms taste like something that shouldn’t be in your mouth. No way my brain made that up.
37: I screamed today. My throat burned in a way I’ve never felt before. Even Rumi and Mira looked shocked. I shouldn’t have screamed at them.
49: This isn’t how I picture the afterlife.
60: I pressed over my ribs and the sharp pain was still there./
Rumi’s breath grew shallow as she flipped through the notebook. Some lines of text were messier, some where cramped. She wasn’t reading anymore, just counting. Six pages filled. A page for almost every day since Zoey left the hospital.
Her chest tightened as she forced herself to read the last two lines.
/203: The feel of my heart thudding in my chest when my mind takes me back to that street. The taste of blood.
204: Maybe I did die./
Rumi swallowed hard.
This was not what she expected.
This was worse.
Chapter 17: Pending conversations
Summary:
Fragments of conversations the day after.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The little café was nearly empty, rain misting the window beside them. Rumi sat with her hands wrapped around the condensation-slick cup, tapioca pearls untouched at the bottom. Across from her, Mira chewed methodically through her drink, watching her in silence.
When Rumi finally spoke, her voice was low, ragged. “Zoey showed me a notebook.”
Mira’s straw froze halfway. “And?”
Rumi stared at the swirling tea as if it could swallow her words. “She was… writing down reasons she’s alive. Like evidence. Proof for herself.” Her throat tightened. “It wasn’t just a list. It was begging. She was begging herself to believe she’s real.”
Mira set her cup down slowly. The ice clinked. Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t rush. “And you?”
“I held her,” Rumi whispered, knuckles whitening around her drink. “I told her I was there, that I saw her live, that I’d remind her as many times as it takes.” Her lip trembled. “But the way she talked, Mira… like she wasn’t fighting to stay, just… detached. Clinical. As if she were already outside herself.”
Mira leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. Her eyes were sharp, but steady, a quiet anchor. “Detached is better than gone, Rumi. Detached means she’s still here. Still reachable.”
Rumi swallowed hard. “She said she doesn’t trust she can ever believe it. That she feels like a ghost.”
For a long moment, Mira didn’t speak. The rain hissed against the glass. Then she reached out, covering Rumi’s trembling hand with her own. “Then we remind her. Over and over. Until her ghost remembers the body it belongs to.”
The firmness in her tone pulled Rumi’s gaze up. Mira’s eyes were unflinching. “You can’t hold that weight alone. You told me because you know that.”
Rumi’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded.
Mira finally allowed herself a sip of her drink, eyes never leaving Rumi. “We’ll hold her together. You, me. And if Zoey doesn’t believe she’s alive…” Mira’s voice dropped, quiet but fierce. “…we’ll believe hard enough for her, until she can.”
Rumi let out a shaky breath, the smallest smile breaking through her guilt. Mira’s calmness wasn’t softness—it was steel. And in that moment, Rumi knew she wasn’t carrying this vow alone anymore.
“Anyway. It may have made me realize the position I put you in when I talked about… ending things. I guess I’m just trying to say thank you. And I’m sorry.”
Mira took another sip, observing Rumi, letting the silence stretch long enough to settle in her head. “You are welcome,” she finally said, eyes still glued to her cup as she set it down. “And by the way, I’m expecting twenty-five apologies from you, and that was never one of them.” She teased.
“Twenty-five? Geez. Just give me a list then. I’ll write a formal letter of apology, line by line.” Rumi smirked into her tea.
Mira snorted. Afterwards she kept her signature smirk on her face.
When Rumi spoke again, her voice was lighter. “The crazy thing is, I was sure she was going to tell me about the solo album.”
Mira’s shoulders tensed, but she kept her mask up like it didn’t matter. “She didn’t. So don’t assume.”
“You are right.” Rumi said, unable to read Mira’s reaction but sensing the tension. She cut off her spiral with a safer question. “By the way… where did Celine go after the movie?"
Mira played with the straw in her cup.
--------
Celine accepted the tea cup Mira handed her, fingers brushing the porcelain like it was an anchor. Across the room, Zoey and Rumi were curled into the couch, arguing with animated hands over which love interest in the new drama truly deserved the main character’s heart. Their laughter filled the room like something fragile but warm.
“It’s good to see them like this,” Celine murmured, voice softer than usual.
“Yeah.” Mira blew gently at the steam of her own cup, her eyes never leaving the two younger girls. “Thank you… for yesterday.” The words came quieter than her usual bluntness, like something she wasn’t used to saying aloud.
Celine tilted her cup against her lips but didn’t drink. “Let me know if you want...practice again.” The way she said it was flat, almost clinical, as if talking about sparring forms rather than what had really happened. Her eyes stayed fixed on the couch—though they faltered for a beat.
Mira blinked, the words catching her off guard.
For a second, she almost laughed, but the humor never reached her throat. Practice. That was one way of putting it. Celine had let herself become Mira’s outlet, even when it meant taking bruises that could’ve been worse. And here she was—still offering, as if her skin and steadiness were disposable in service of the team. In service of Mira.
A ripple of something unfamiliar—gratitude, maybe, or guilt dressed as gratitude—ran through her chest. She wasn’t used to anyone else shouldering her edges. Usually, she was the one taking the hits, the one being the wall for everyone else. Not this time.
Mira sipped from her tea, masking the curve tugging at her mouth. It wasn’t a big smile, just the kind you wore when you refused to admit you were relieved. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, but there was no heat in it. Only a smirk she didn’t bother to hide.
Celine still didn’t look at her, but Mira could’ve sworn she saw the corner of her lips twitch.
----
Celine’s lips twitched — half a crack of amusement, half a frown — as she stepped into the living room. The demon tiger’s massive body stretched across the rug like some oversized housecat, and sprawled right over it, limbs tangled in stripes and fur, was Zoey.
Celine stopped in the doorway, arms crossing.
“You do realize that thing isn’t a pillow, right?”
Zoey propped her chin on the tiger’s shoulder, grinning like she’d been caught sneaking cookies.
“He’s warm, comfy, and there’s not a single thought behind those eyes. He could be one.”
The tiger rumbled, low and steady, more thunder than purr. Its tail flicked once.
“Or,” Celine said evenly, “he could decide you look like dinner.”
Zoey snorted. “If he wanted to eat me, he would’ve by now. We’ve already reached… cuddle stage.” She patted the striped flank with exaggerated delicacy. “See? Bonded.”
Celine raised a brow, unimpressed. “Bonded.”
“Yep. Soulmates. I’m the small spoon.”
The corner of Celine’s mouth betrayed her — a twitch of laughter she crushed under a sigh. “Zoey…” She stepped further in, her gaze landing on the beast’s massive paws. Each claw looked like it could gut a car door. Her voice softened just a fraction. “This isn’t a pet. It’s a weapon. A demon. Remember that.”
Zoey’s smile faltered, just for a beat. She dipped her head, the reverence slipping past her humor.
“I know.”
For a moment, silence stretched — Zoey pressed against the beast, Celine standing over them, both women aware of the danger crouched between comfort and threat.
Then Zoey let out a dramatic sigh, eyes glinting.
“But if I do die like this, at least write on my gravestone: ‘Death by oversized murder-kitty. Worth it.’”
Celine’s exhale was sharp — not quite a laugh, not quite exasperation. She shook her head, muttering, “Hopeless.”
The tiger flicked its ear. Zoey leaned conspiratorially toward it and whispered, just loud enough for Celine to hear:
“She likes us.”
Celine’s gaze lingered a beat too long before she turned toward the kitchen.
“Don’t push your luck.”
------ Bonus, Rumi original reaction to the notebook. -------
Rumi’s fingers trembled as the words blurred on the page. She blinked hard, but the lump in her throat wouldn’t move. Each line felt like a blow—Zoey cataloging proof of her own life, begging herself to believe she was still here. Still real.
Rumi closed the notebook carefully, as if the pages themselves were fragile. Her hand lingered on the cover. She couldn’t trust her voice yet—if she spoke now, it would break.
So she moved.
She set the notebook aside and reached for Zoey, pulling her into her arms with a ferocity that startled even her. Zoey stiffened at first, caught off guard, but then melted into the embrace.
Rumi buried her face in the crook of her neck. Her voice, when it finally came, was rough, uneven, ripped out of her:
“You didn’t die. You didn’t.” Her arms tightened, as if holding Zoey in place could will the truth into her bones. “I don’t care what that voice says. I was there. I saw you fight. I saw you live. You’re here. With me. With us.”
Her breath shook, but she forced herself to keep going, each word heavy with vow:
“And I’ll remind you as many times as it takes. I’ll write you a thousand reasons myself if yours ever run out. But don’t you ever think you’re gone, Zoey. Don’t you dare.”
Zoey’s hands clutched at Rumi’s back, trembling. She felt she should cry, but no tears would come. Still, she didn’t let go. She couldn’t.
For once, Rumi wasn’t thinking about strength, or leadership, or the weight of her failures.
She was just holding Zoey. Holding her alive.
And silently, she made her own vow: she would not let the world, or the shadows, or even Zoey’s own mind steal her away again.
Not while she still had breath.
Zoey’s voice broke the silence then—quiet, steady, almost clinical. Detachment wrapped around every word, as if it was the only way she could let them out.
“Funny, isn’t it? I can list every scar on my body, every battle we’ve lived through... and it still feels like none of it belongs to me. Like I’m a ghost writing evidence for a trial no one’s attending.”
Rumi’s heart lurched. The calmness in her tone cut deeper than any sob. She pulled back just enough to see her face. “Zoey—”
But Zoey shook her head, eyes distant. “I’m not saying I want to disappear. It’s worse than that. It’s the absence of wanting. Rationally, I know I’m alive. I know I should feel grateful—you’re here, Mira’s here, I’m breathing. But inside…” Her gaze drifted, unfocused. “Inside, it’s like the wires don’t connect. Like I’m watching myself through glass.”
Rumi’s throat burned. The realization hit her—it was the same hollow place she had dragged them into when she confessed her own thoughts of ending things. “Then let me be the bridge. Let me hold the glass until it cracks.”
Zoey almost smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s the problem. You can’t force someone back into their skin. I can’t just decide to feel. It’s not a choice—it’s like gravity missing.”
Rumi’s grip only tightened. “Then I’ll anchor you until it comes back. I don’t care if it takes a day, a year, or forever. You don’t have to climb out alone.”
Zoey studied her, detached but searching, as if testing the weight of those words. Her voice was quiet, nearly flat:
“And what if it never comes back, Rumi? What if this is all that’s left of me—someone you love who can’t love herself back the way she should?”
Rumi didn’t flinch. Her reply was fierce, almost desperate:
“Then I’ll love you twice as hard. Enough for both of us. Until you remember. Until you believe it again.”
For a moment Zoey’s lips parted, as if she wanted to argue—but instead she leaned her forehead against Rumi’s shoulder, her confession slipping out clinical, muted:
“…I don’t trust that I can believe it. But I trust you.”
Rumi closed her eyes, letting the words carve themselves into her chest. “Then that’s enough for tonight. But Zoey, we are telling Mira. And then we’ll both take care of you.” Her voice was soft, but decided.
Zoey only gave a half-shrug, her silence heavier than words.
Notes:
I needed a break from heavy emotions.
But dont worry we resume story, angst and healing next chapter.
Thanks for reading.
Chapter 18: Break
Chapter Text
Buzz.
Zoey’s eyelashes fluttered with confusion as the vibration dragged her out of sleep. With sluggish movements, she reached for her nightstand. The glow of her phone cut a sharp line across the dark, sketching the curve of her nose in pale light.
One eye squinted at the screen while the other clung stubbornly to sleep.
Hunting:
*You were added to a new group chat.*
Still hazy, she opened the second notification. A message from Rumi.
Rumi: I can’t add you to the other chat. That’s where we kept tabs while you were in the hospital, and you don’t need to see that.
But I can make sure you’re included in all future conversations.
Zoey’s eyes widened, the fog of sleep burning away as she reread it once. Twice.
The phone slipped to her chest. She shut her eyes again, a small smile tugging at her lips as she sank into better dreams.
---
The dance studio had been stripped of its usual shine, the hardwood floors hidden under tatami mats for weeks now. Yet today, the air felt lighter.
Every window was thrown open, letting late spring air pour in. The warmth mingled with laughter—Zoey’s laughter—from the corner, rising above the slap of bodies hitting the mat. Rumi had just been swept down hard by Celine.
Flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling, Rumi’s lungs burned. Not just from the fall, but from the sound of Zoey laughing so freely. It had been too long since she’d heard that sound, bright and unguarded. It stung in a way she couldn’t quite name.
From across the room, Mira shot Zoey a look that said Seriously?
Zoey only grinned wider, tossing another Skittle into her mouth. “Celine, I think Mira wants to try again.”
Training had become their rhythm over the last four days. No attack had come, but the threat of the Taunting Twins still hung in the air—enough to keep them sharp. Even Zoey had started practicing her stances, small motions at first, carefully now that the stitches had dissolved, she moved with more freedom, chasing progress she wasn’t sure her body could keep up with.
Rumi admired the effort. She couldn’t help it. Celine seemed quietly amused at how fast Zoey adapted. Mira, though, couldn’t stop seeing through it: the way Zoey bit back pain to feel like she belonged on the mat. And she’d rather have Zoey heckling them from the sidelines, mouth full of candy, than pushing herself raw just to keep up.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Mira said at last, stepping forward as Rumi retreated.
Her leg snapped out in a vicious round kick aimed at Celine’s head. Celine’s arm shot up to deflect, but Mira pivoted midair, landing and snapping a second kick straight to her chest. Celine sidestepped late, catching half the blow.
“That,” Celine said, exhaling, “was a well-executed feint.”
Mira smirked, shooting Zoey a sidelong glance, one brow cocked.
From the corner, Rumi noticed something else—their rhythm. Mira and Celine, moving sharper, cleaner, more in sync with each exchange. That comfort unsettled her.
By the time the hours bled out of training, their bodies were spent. They peeled off in different directions. Celine disappeared to the guest floor below. Mira and Rumi drifted back toward the penthouse, agreeing to regroup for dinner once they’d showered.
Rumi was the last ready—of course—fussing with drying and braiding her hair. Stepping out, she caught the familiar scent immediately—bibimbap. The smell pulled something taut in her chest. Celine’s fallback quick meal. Comforting. It had always meant home.
She followed the aroma down the hallway—until Mira appeared at the far end. Their eyes caught, Mira’s lips parting as if to speak—then both froze.
A voice. Zoey’s voice.
Her door was cracked, her singing spilling out unguarded. The fragile verse of Golden, breaking apart as she fought for breath.
Rumi flinched. Her jaw locked. Each labored inhale scraped across her ribs as if her own lungs carried the weight.
Mira’s gaze slipped away. She pressed her knuckles to the wall—just once—before she made her hand still again.
Then Zoey’s voice surged. No falter now. No softness. She spit lyrics in her American accent like a weapon—sharp, fast, raw. Still loudly forcing a breath between lines. Each word barbed with scars that hadn’t healed.
Rumi and Mira’s eyes met again. Unease held between them, but not confusion. Something deeper. They didn’t understand Zoey’s why, not fully—but in that moment, they recognized it. Felt the wound under the fire.
“Food is ready,” Mira called loud enough to be heard from Zoey’s room, her voice steady, clipped. Without waiting for a reply, she turned away, leaving Rumi in the hallway, the sound of Zoey’s song still burning in her chest.
For a second Rumi lingered on the music, she hated that Zoey’s pain sounded like truth, when her own still felt like silence.
At the table, the warmth of Celine’s steaming bibimbap should have been comforting. Instead, conversation snagged and faltered the moment Rumi joined. Celine and Mira had been chatting easily about counterattacks and feints; now all three fell quiet until Zoey slid into her seat across from Celine.
Zoey’s presence sparked life into the meal. She and Celine carried the flow, their talk drifting to schedules and costumes.
“Your comeback is three weeks away,” Celine reminded her, tone casual but edged with discipline. “We’ll need the tailors again before then.”
The words dropped like stones. Rumi’s gaze shifted automatically toward Mira, searching, but Mira kept her eyes on her plate.
“We could push it back,” Mira said at last, voice low, still not meeting her.
Silence stretched.
“I’ve been practicing,” Zoey murmured, almost apologetic. “My voice isn’t perfect, but it’s close.”
“We wont force you.” Rumi said softly, laying a hand over hers. The role of comforter came easily, even as her own chest ached.
“Only if you’re ready.” Mira added, her steady tone grounding the room.
Together, they carried Zoey. Together, they made space for her.
Celine’s voice softened, but her words stayed pragmatic. “Strengthening the honmoon will help. Either way, Bobby will be reaching out soon.”
Zoey glanced up, catching Rumi and Mira’s downcast eyes, their gazes fixed on their plates. She knew she wasn’t ready either. Her skills were still raw, her confidence unsteady. But...
“We could take it slow,” she suggested hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe start with interviews, TV appearances? Just to stay relevant, you know?” The idea trailed off, as if even she wasn’t sure it would hold.
Neither Mira nor Rumi responded. The stillness was unbearable, so Zoey’s teasing instinct kicked in. “Are you going to keep acting as statues?, you are almost forcing me to do a duet with Celine.” She forced her grin into a smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief, but her tone was more hesitant.
Mira’s lips twitched, and she chuckled softly. “I’d pay to see that.” Her eyes lingered on zoey a little longer than intended.
Rumi smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. The chopsticks crackled in her hand before she finally lifted a spoonful of bibimbap, using the motion as a shield not to answer.
“Actually, Zoey,” Celine cut in smoothly, her tone carrying quiet authority. “I will be helping with your vocal technique. You have a lot to work on during recovery.”
Zoey froze, then lit up. She could barely process it. Celine had trained all of them as idols, yes—but this was different. This was personal. This was her idol offering one-on-one guidance. The lyricist inside her could have gone full fangirl, but all she managed was a fervent nod, her grin threatening to split her face.
The meal ended on that note, not quiet but heavy. Afterward, Zoey followed Celine into the studio, leaving the apartment thinner, quieter.
Rumi and Mira settled onto the couch. The absence of Zoey’s energy made the silence between them deafening.
“We were supposed to have three months off,” Rumi muttered, eyes on the city lights glittering beyond the window. “Instead, it’s just more chaos.”
Mira gave a short, humorless laugh. “You mean the comeback?”
Rumi nodded. “I don’t know if I’m ready to do this again. It doesn’t feel like me anymore.”
Mira’s voice was blunt, but gentler at the edges. “We’ll manage. We just need to stay focused—on performances, on Zoey’s recovery—”
“That’s it!” Rumi cut in, sharper now. “It’s always about Zoey. When was the last time we talked about us?”
Mira stiffened. “Then what do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know!” Rumi’s voice cracked. “That’s the problem. It’s like we’ve forgotten how to talk. How to be honest.”
Her words hung brittle in the air. Mira clenched her fists, swallowing the sting.
“You make it sound like I don’t care,” Mira said at last, her restraint making the words cut sharper.
Rumi shook her head, eyes bright. “You’re here, Mira—but it feels like you’re always somewhere else. With Celine. With the team. With Zoey. Never just… here with me.”
Mira flinched. For a second, her mask wavered—like she might finally answer. But silence stretched instead, suffocating.
Their eyes locked, daring the other to close the distance. Neither moved.
Then the ground trembled beneath them. A pulse of energy rippled through the air, snapping both their heads toward the horizon at once. The tension between them didn’t vanish—but it shifted, forced aside by instinct. Danger was coming.
They shared a glance in silence. An unspoken truce, with both their hearts pressed on their throats for more than one reason.
By the time Celine rejoined them, the unspoken vow was clear: whatever storm was breaking over the horizon, they would meet it together.
Rumi’s turmoil wasn’t healed, Mira’s distance wasn’t mended, but that ripple had forced them to remember the bond beneath the fracture.
The three of them moved quickly, slipping through the industrial sprawl until the world opened into a vast train yard. The soft chipping of the crickets loud in the silence. Rows of rusting wagons stood like a graveyard of steel giants, their hulking shadows broken by gaps where headlights bled through. The air reeked of oil and rust, thick with the promise of violence.
This was the battlefield. The parking ground for the wagons clear enough for movement, but every echo bounced too loud, too sharp, as if the place itself anticipated the clash to come.
Celine took point, sharp-eyed and steady, while Mira fell into step at her flank. Rumi trailed a heartbeat behind, still carrying the weight of their unresolved words, but her fists clenched, her eyes steady on the rows of steel before them. Whatever storm had crossed the horizon—it was here now, waiting.
“Hey there, little flame.”
“Did you miss us?”
The Twins’ voices curled out like smoke
Chapter 19: Hush
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Hey there, little flame.”
“Did you miss us?”
The sajas’ voices curled out like smoke, twin silhouettes perched theatrically atop a battered wagon, their grins sharp as blades.
Celine scanned the area. No other threats. It didn’t make sense—something had crossed the Honmoon here. Not them. They were already on this side. So what was it? Her hand dusted the side of her pants without thinking. Fixing her appearance was her fidgeting tell.
Mira caught it. The tiny tick. The shared tension. It had taken her an extra breath to piece it together because her body angled toward Rumi first, always Rumi.
Rumi’s stomach lurched. She tried to mute them, shut them out. But their voices slithered past every wall. She wanted to kill them. Needed to. For what they had done to Zoey. For what they still did to her. Her hands curled into fists until her knuckles blanched.
I need to kill them. If I don’t, they’ll break me. They’ll break us.
“Aw, look at her,” one of them cooed, voice dripping venom under the sugar. “All grown up but still trembling.”
Miras weapon materialized, her hands closed against it harder than usual. Her jaw tensed trapped between wanting to end it, and knowing she couldn’t give them a chance to isolate any of them, specially Rumi.
The other tilted his head, grin stretching wider. “Think she’s pretending she can’t hear us again? How cute. Like if she just closes her little ears, we’ll disappear.”
Their words slithered through the air, circling Rumi like smoke from a dying fire. She kept her eyes fixed on the dirt, jaw locked. She refused to give them the satisfaction—refused to flinch. Her knuckles burned from clenching too hard, nails biting skin.
“Nothing to say? Not even a hello?”
“Maybe she’s broken already. Maybe we don’t even need to try.”
Celine’s shoulders tensed as she called her swords, the angle of her stance unmistakable: a shield without words.
Mira shifted subtly, her shoulder brushing Rumi’s in a silent check, while Celine raised her chin, voice cutting through the heavy air.
“Get down from there. You’re in our way.”
The sajas only laughed, but their eyes flicked—not to Celine, not to Mira, but to Rumi, as if they knew exactly where the weakest seam was.
Rumi exhaled, long and shaky, dragging silence around herself like armor. She had to stay still. Had to hold. If she opened her mouth, she wasn’t sure if she’d scream—or choke.
The silence worked against them. Their grins stiffened, eyes sharpening as the mask of playful cruelty cracked. The one on the left tapped the wagon’s edge with mock impatience.
“Not talking?” His voice lowered, silk peeling into steel. “Then we’ll make you listen.”
Theatrics followed. Hands pressed to their chests, expressions dripping false grief.
“Did you know some families end up living in places like this?” one said, voice quivering.
“When they only have the streets, a place like this feels… comforting,” added the other, pacing behind with the same pitiful mask.
“But does anybody think about the children?” they chorused, eyes shimmering with fake tears—until the sadness broke into sharp, wide smirks.
Rumi felt it, the old heat stirring, crawling up her throat like fire desperate for air.
They rose together, fluid, deliberate, no longer content with just theatrics. The air around them thickened. A snap. Pink smoke curled as they vanished, leaving only the aftertaste of mockery.
Celine resumed her sweep without a word, steps precise, eyes everywhere.
“We stay together. They don’t stand a chance,” Mira muttered, falling in behind.
Rumi called for her sword. For a heartbeat she feared it wouldn’t answer. Then it did, solid in her grip. She whispered to herself as she followed, “Together.”
Less than a minute later—
A scream shattered the silence. High-pitched. Desperate. A child’s voice.
Rumi reacted first, her feet moving as if pulled by a string. Her heart raced, and one thought pushed everything else out of her mind: save him.
Mira’s head snapped toward the sound instinctively. She scanned the area ahead before sprinting after Rumi.
Celine lingered a breath longer. She glanced back toward the wagon where the twins had been, then forward toward the chaos waiting for them. She knew it was an ambush. So did they.
And still—instinct first, thought second. The three hunters ran.
The battlefield unfolded before them. Noise tore at the air—gasps, screams, claws dragging against metal. A dozen wagons burned, wrapping the yard in a cinematic, low orange glow. The light was enough to reveal it all: three dozen demons, multiple bodies strewn across the ground, people of every age. Where the screams rose sharpest, demons bent low, mouths pressed to souls, feeding.
Rumi’s eyes locked onto a small child in the chaos. A demon, having just torn the soul from the woman beside him, reached toward the boy. She lunged forward. Mira had seen it too, and together they carved a path—power, speed, and rage in tandem.
Mira swung wide, her blade shattering obstacles or sweeping them aside with the shaft. Rumi slipped under and around her, Gok-do flashing, guarding Mira’s blind spots, finishing what she left in her wake. The smell of burned sugar thickened the air around them.
They were close—so close.
Twenty meters left. Rumi’s heart hammered in her ears as she slashed into a disciplined wall of demons barring her path. They weren’t breaking. Her eyes flicked between the boy, claws at his shirt, and the blows barely missing her skin. She searched desperately for an opening.
She found one. Vaulting off a demon’s shoulder, she flipped over another, a claw tearing her arm as she landed running. She didn’t care. Her eyes stayed fixed on the boy, his soul outside his body but still tethered. If I can just push harder. If I can just run faster.
Fifteen meters. The soul frayed.
Ten. Desperate, she hurled her sword. Unarmed, exposed, she didn’t think—she trusted the throw.
The blade spun in tight circles, time slowing, sound dimming, until it pierced the demon’s eye. A shriek split the air as the creature collapsed into a plume of smoke.
five. Rumi slid on her knees to the boy, claws raking across her as she reached him. She gathered him carefully, flipped him over.
“You’re saf—”
Her voice broke.
She knew it by the way his head hung limp.
She knew it by how his skin was cold against the heat of her trembling hands.
She was too late.
A ringing drowned her ears. Around her, human bodies sprawled, motionless. Not one left standing.
Mira still fought, hemmed in, her strength restrained by the press of demons.
Celine cut her way toward her, every step precise, every strike calculated, smoke blooming at her heels.
Rumi stared, throat burning, fire clawing up from her chest.
Her jaw clenched. Her pulse roared hot in her ears.
Her nails dug into her palms.
For an instant, her vision sharpened—edges too sharp, colors too raw, as though the world itself was daring her to break.
Notes:
The fight had just begun.
Chapter 20: The price of doubt
Summary:
What else could go wrong?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Rumi had recovered her sword and forced herself onto her feet.
She cut down demons with a little more malice than usual, striking again and again before finally slicing through their bodies. Each blow carried weight beyond necessity, as though she was daring herself to lose control. She walked a razor’s edge between channeling her anger and being consumed by it.
The markings had spread only across her arms, chest, and back. That fact both relieved and terrified her. Because the brutal ferocity driving her wasn’t the patterns. It was her.
Across the battlefield, Mira and Celine moved as one. Celine lunged forward, drawing demons toward her. At the last instant she would pivot—duck, sidestep, or leap aside—and funnel them straight into Mira’s path. Mira crashed through their ranks with raw power, swinging wide without hesitation, never worrying about gaps. Celine covered her with seamless precision. And any demon still standing, off-balance, was dispatched by Celine’s quick blades.
Rumi’s eyes caught on them. Their synchrony. Their duet of efficiency. It burned in her chest.
She forced her way closer, regaining composure with every step. When she drew near enough, she realized they were singing—a duet version of What It Sounds Like. She swallowed hard and let her voice slip in, weaving into their harmony.
“You freaking disappeared!” Mira spat, tinted with worry, her eyes locked on the fight ahead. She swung hard, only to choke her strike short—Rumi had stepped into her arc.
Rumi stumbled. She didn’t answer. Instead, she threw herself at a fallen demon, finishing it with a desperate strike—only to have her sword clang against Celine’s, the clash giving the creature just enough time to stagger back to its feet.
Her voice cracked out of the harmony on the next chorus. She noticed. And she knew they did too.
Jaw tight, Rumi pulled back, choosing instead to guard their backs. But her thoughts gnawed at her: Why did the perfect harmony falter the moment I joined?
From the edge of the fray, the Taunting Twins watched with mirrored smiles. Their laughter didn’t echo across the battlefield—it threaded through it, thin and sharp, like the sound of glass being scored before a break. One’s lips curled faintly at her brutality—relishing the darkness in her strikes. The other's eyes narrowed when her voice broke in the song, sensing the fracture between her and the others. They didn’t just notice. They savored it.
“She’s splintering,” one twin whispered, his tone sweet as syrup.
“And she doesn’t even need us for the cracks,” the other replied, their voices weaving together the way Rumi, Mira, and Celine’s hadn’t. Perfectly matched. Perfectly cruel.
They drifted closer, almost dancing, their steps light, predatory, taunting.
Each time Rumi swung, their laughter threaded through the clash of steel and shrieks of demons, amplifying the smallest hesitation, the smallest flaw. Their presence turned her mistakes into something heavier, sharper, impossible to ignore.
They fed on her doubt like it was the richest nectar.
“Let’s give her a melody she can follow” one twin cooed.
“... a song of broken dreams and shattered hope.” the other finished, smiling wide enough to show teeth.
They tilted their heads in unison, then advanced—slow, deliberate—like predators circling prey they’d already chosen.
Celine saw them approaching, and she glanced at Mira and Rumi behind her. Her fists clenched harder arround her swords as she slid past the group of demons in front of her.
They don’t strike first. They play, she reminded herself, recalling their last encounter and Rumi’s words after it. It's mind games. They were supposed to torment, unnerve, never leave lasting damage. If that was true, then this was her chance to end them. Her chin lifted, calm threading through her veins as she turned back to Mira and Rumi.
“Handle the others,” she commanded, voice crisp, precise. “These two are mine.”
And before doubt could creep in, Celine moved — a dancer threading between blades and bodies, sliding past snarls and claws until she cut the twins’ path with effortless grace. Steel gleamed in her hands, her every line sharp, poised, certain.
The twins laughed in unison, the sound cold enough to prickle the air. One snapped his fingers. Pink smoke blossomed, curling around his hands until the haze resolved into jagged, shimmering weapons, hyeopdo that reminded her of Mira's own, if it was just steal and not honmoon threads— So they do fight after all.
“Does the puppy want to play?” one crooned, voice sweet as venom.
The second lunged, catching her wrists mid-swing with brutal precision. Celine’s blades jolted to a halt, her breath catching as the grip tightened like iron. The other circled behind, laughter echoing in her ear. Wrong — she’d been wrong.
They had let go of her arms as a weapon was passed through the air. Their grims didn't flake as they circled, staying across from each other. Making sure she couldn’t track both.
Then-They struck in tandem.
One’s blade carved downward; she twisted free just in time, only to stagger as the second drove a kick into her ribs. Pain blossomed, hot and sudden, though her skin bore no mark. She hissed, forcing her stance steady, trying to read their rhythm.
But there was no rhythm. They were too fluid, too intertwined — each strike designed not to hit, but to herd. Every dodge she made against one twin only locked her into the path of the other’s blow. A seamless trap. Celine slashed and spun, evading where she could, deflecting when she couldn’t, but each exchange left her body thrumming with phantom bruises.
Her chest rose and fell harder now, the graceful certainty draining into unease.
Their eyes glittered with anticipation, their laughter echoing in stereo, closing tighter and tighter around her.
Celine realized with a cold sinking that they weren’t simply reacting to her.
They were predicting her.
And her body was already starting to fail under the weight of it.
Celine shifted her weight, one blade angled low, the other stayed close to her body, eyes tracking the twins as they prowled in widening arcs.
Their movements were unnervingly calculated, never rushing, never breaking formation. She had expected blades at her throat the second they closed on her. Instead, they drew the moment out, savoring her unease.
“Poor little puppy” one of them cooed, voice sharp enough to cut.
"Do you need some rest?" The other one finished with a whisper behind Celines back. Leaning so close she had felt his breath in her ear.
Celine’s jaw tightened. Don’t give them the reaction. Don’t. She dodged a sudden lunge, steel hissing past her shoulder, and countered with a slash — too slow, too shallow. The second twin was already there, deflecting with a laugh that rang cruelly in her ears.
They pressed in, never striking to kill. A cut to her sleeve. A shove that knocked her half a step off balance. A glancing blow that made her ribs ache but did not break them. They wanted her to feel small, outpaced, toyed with.
Celine exhaled through her teeth, forcing her focus to narrow. “If you want me down,” she spat, “you’ll have to do more than circle like jackals.”
One twin tilted his head, smile like a mask. “Oh, the puppy still has bite.”
The other leaned close as his blade skimmed past her cheek, whispering: “We’ll see how long it lasts.”
Their laughter braided together as they danced back, giving her just enough space to hope — before closing in again.
Mira and Rumi sneaked glances towards Celine as they could. They saw her struggle but she seemed to be holding. As the lesser demons were hunted down and they could spend more time looking they realized the true.
It was like seeing two cats playing with a small mouse, knowing what the outcome will be.
It was Mira who rushed forward this time, her heart pounding on her throat as images of Zoey right before the attack over lapped Celine's. She couldn’t be late this time. She couldn’t be slow.
Rumi startled, she was puled towards Celine too, but she wasn’t going to leave a threat behind their backs again. She forced herself to finish the last two demons. Trusting Mira. Silently praying she had enough time to joing them.
One twin lifted his chin, eyes gleaming as they caught Mira breaking toward them. A subtle flick of the wrist was all it took to signal the approach. The other twin’s lips curled into a knowing smirk, and together they broke into laughter—high, eerie, perfectly in sync. The sound cut through the clash of steel like a taunt, designed for everyone to hear.
A hyeopdo thudded into the dirt behind Celine, its blade still humming from the throw. She turned just enough to catch the motion in her periphery—too late. The unarmed twin was already lunging, body twisting like a shadow uncoiling. Instinct snapped her back a step, but a chill touched her spine: the unmistakable press of steel. She froze, breath caught mid-chest, as a second blade kissed her from behind.
Her body pivoted, trying to break free, but hands clamped down mid-motion. The twins moved as one—one pushing, the other ramming. Celine’s defenses shattered in that half-second of hesitation, her weight driven backwards into the waiting edge.
“You should have played with us when you had the chance, little flame,” Voice lilting, pitched just loud enough to reach Rumi across the chaos.
The words were less a threat than a performance, bait strung into cruelty.
The three hunters felt time froze, and their legs flaked for a heartbeat-
Which was long enough for-
Snap!
A sound like the world folding in on itself. The twins were gone. Their blades, their laughter, vanished as if they’d only been ghosts to begin with.
Celine dropped to one knee, one hand clamped over her side, crimson already blooming between her fingers.
The battlefield fell silent around Rumi, the world narrowed to that image: her mother-figure wounded, broken by a game she hadn’t chosen to play.
Notes:
Hey there!
Hope you enjoy this chapter.
Comming up with a fighting style for the twins was truely challenging. But I think it came out okay.
I'm currently struggling with motivation, so if you made it this far could you leave a comment please?
As always, thank you for reading.
Chapter 21: Lesson in Blood
Summary:
How did Celine react to the wound, and being turned into a prop in someone else’s choreography?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Celine’s chest still rose and fell laboredly, each breath searing at her side. She let it burn. Pain was sharp, but not unbearable. She had suffered worse.
A wound was a wound—something to be cleaned, stitched, endured.
That part she could handle.
What twisted deeper, spreading like ice in her chest, was the humiliation.
She had been so certain she could hold them off. Certain she could read their games, their rhythm. But there was no rhythm to read.
She’d been wrong, and the price of her mistake now leaked crimson through her whitened fingers under the pressure of the grip.
The battlefield around her blurred into smoke and deafening silence, but her focus tunneled inward, to the girls. Mira’s raw instincts, already running toward her. Rumi’s trembling, the song broken on her lips.
If her fall fractured them further, then the wound at her side would be the least of their losses.
Her heartbeat pounded like a war drum in her throat as memory replayed: their laughter twined in stereo, her blades caught mid-swing, the kick slamming into her ribs.
They hadn’t been fighting her. They’d been performing with her, turning her into the unwilling partner in a cruel dance. She had followed every step exactly as they intended, and the realization clawed deeper than the wound itself.
She remembered the glancing blows, the shallow cuts that never aimed to kill. Not victory strikes—degradation strikes. Shoving her half a step back. Stealing her breath. Reminding her that they dictated the tempo.
For a moment her pride had whispered: You can outlast them. All you need is one clean opening. But that opening had never come.
Each parry had locked her tighter in their design. Each dodge had folded into their trap. Until the blade kissed her from behind and she had known—this wasn’t a fight. It was a lesson. A lesson written in blood and shame.
Her jaw clenched as the memory sharpened: the words little flame dripping into her ear, pitched so Rumi would hear it. Not an insult meant for her alone—an arrow designed to pierce through her and hit the girl she had sworn to protect.
The moment it landed, she had understood. She wasn’t their prey. Rumi was. They had broken her simply to prove how easily they could.
And now, kneeling with blood between her fingers, she couldn’t escape the thought: Was I their shield, or was I their weakness? She had told herself, time and again, that she was the wall between the girls and the abyss.
But walls didn’t splinter this easily. A real shield didn’t stagger, didn’t falter, didn’t fall into traps so neatly laid. If the girls saw her as that shield, then what were they seeing now?
Her chest tightened.
Not from the wound, but from the fear pressing underneath it.
She wasn’t afraid of dying. That had never frightened her, not once since the day she first picked up a blade.
What frightened her now was the image of Rumi and Mira watching her collapse.
The betrayal in their eyes when they realized she wasn’t unshakable. That she could bleed, and worse—she could fail them.
One of her swords layed next to her, her eyes drawn to her own reflection in the steal.
Her free hand pressed the tip of her other sword against the ground, and she transferred her bodyweight, attempting to stand up. A failed attempt. Her legs refused.
She couldn’t let the girl's see this.
Not her like this.
Not the way her mouth was still open- half trying to catch her breath- half flabbergasted.
Not her body slightly shaking from the exhaustion, the pain and the adrenaline.
Not the way her eyes where now clinging to the girls. Unmasked. Unfiltered.
Rumi. Sweet, fractured Rumi, whose mother’s face she could never erase from memory. Miyeong—her bestfriend, her rival, her rock. The promise she had made on that deathbed had haunted every step since: I will take care of her.
She had, in her own way. By sharpening the good she saw. By burying the rest. By loving the part of Rumi that reminded her of Miyeong, and pretending she didn’t see the cracks forming in the dark. She had thought she was protecting her. Training her. Making her strong. But was it love, or just fear masquerading as love?
Her true love for the girl had only surfaced in that moment she thought she had lost her. And though she clung to it now, fierce and whole, showing it was still a battle she had not learned how to fight.
And Mira—relentless Mira, pushing herself past her limits to carry both Zoey and Rumi on her back. Celine saw it, the caretaker’s exhaustion, the way it ate at her from within. She knew because she had lived it. The cracks in herself that never healed after Miyeong’s death, the hollow where joy and trust had once lived. She saw her own shadow in the girl’s future, and she refused—refused—to let it happen.
Their bond, the three girls, was stronger than anything she had ever known. Stronger than what she and Miyeong had shared, even. And she would not let them burn apart the way she had once burned.
But something else festered where resolve should have been. She should have anticipated the feints, should have seen through the act. Instead she had rushed in with certainty, and that certainty had shattered into fragments as the twins toyed with her.
Was she still the anchor they could trust? Or had she become just another weight they would need to carry?
She wanted to rise, to steady herself, to prove that she still could—but for the first time in years, the thought flickered: what if I can’t?
The twins were gone, their laughter dissolved into silence. But their presence lingered, stitched into her skin, echoing in her mind. They hadn’t just cut her.
They had carved uncertainty into her.
Mira and Rumi reached her side—words tumbling, faces raw with fear. She forced herself to her feet through the fear, the exhaustion, the torment and the remanents of adrenaline.
Her mask sliding back into place before theirs could crumble.
“Blood is dramatic,” she said. Her voice trembled, but it was steadier than she felt. “I’m okay.”
Mira’s shoulders eased, breath escaping like she’d been holding it for miles. Even Rumi’s trembling stilled at the sound of her voice. Relief softened their faces, hope threading fragile and bright.
But where they saw reassurance, Celine felt the opposite. The wet heat dripping from her fingers only made the whisper louder: doubt, pulsing with every heartbeat.
Rumi bit her lip, hands hovering, afraid to touch.
Mira standed tall, scanning, listening. Attentive to any queue of the Twins returning.
But Celine knew better.
Their part was played.
They would not return tonight.
Main actors never reappeared once the audience had gasped.
Notes:
It felt like we should hear her voice for once.
I know this chapter is short, sorry. The next two are being worked on but she deserved the spotlight for a bit.
Thank you for reading.
And thank you for the coments.I appreciate you all following this.
Chapter 22: Fracture Point
Chapter Text
“Blood is dramatic,” Celine said. Her voice trembled, but, it was steadier than she felt. “I’m okay.”
Rumi bit her lip, hands hovering helplessly over Celine’s wound. She wanted to press down, to stop the bleeding, to do something. She also wanted to rip the world apart for letting this happen again, for the sight of Celine bleeding out in front of her.
Mira straightened, eyes scanning the shifting haze around them. Her jaw ached from clenching.
She listened for any sign of their return, forcing her body into soldier’s readiness even as her heart was still racing with the echoes of Zoey’s collapse—one memory bleeding into the present until she could hardly tell which moment she was in.
“Rumi, I need your hoodie,” Celine said. Her tone was even, but her skin had started to pale. The fabric around her side was dark and spreading. She knew she couldn’t leave it like that much longer.
Rumi blinked, startled, before fumbling at her hem. Her hands shook so badly she let her sword dissolve first, terrified she’d drop it on Celine. Only then did she peel the hoodie over her head and offer it, eyes still stuck on the blood soaking through her blouse.
The present blurred for her in flashes—child’s eyes, lifeless; Zoey gasping on the floor; now Celine folding under their protection.
“Mira.” Celine’s voice stayed level, but her body betrayed her. The faint tremor in her arm, the sway in her balance. “They’re gone.”
Mira’s fists tightened. She let her gok-do dissolve, the weapon’s vanishing ringing too loud in her ears. Gone? The word mocked her. The twins weren’t finished. They’d come back. They always came back. Her pulse hammered like she was still too late, already grieving something she hadn’t yet lost.
Celine hesitated looking at Rumi's hoodie. She didn’t want to raise her blouse, not in front of them. She couldn’t let them see the wound—how deep, how real. Not when Mira’s panic was a storm she barely kept leashed, and Rumi was already unraveling at the seams.
“Let me help.” Mira’s voice cracked sharper than intended, half-command, half-plea. If she could keep her hands busy, she wouldn’t feel the helplessness gnawing her chest.
“No need.” Celine wore the mask like armor, the one she’d built from years of control. She smiled thinly, as though the gash were a scratch, as though her ribs didn’t burn with every breath. She couldn’t allow her weakness to splinter them further. If she broke, they might too.
Rumi swallowed her words. She knew Celine well enough to see the small shift in her behavior, and started to wonder what 'okay' really meant. She saw through it, and cursed herself for being so weak that even now Celine felt the need to protect her.
She needed to help, but if Mira had been turned away, what chance did she have? Still, she fumbled in her back pocket and held out a small makeup mirror. It was an absurdly mundane thing to offer, but it was something—something that might let Celine look without unraveling in front of them.
Celine raised an eyebrow, lips quirking faintly at the gesture. She accepted both mirror and hoodie, then turned toward a nearby container. Modesty, they’d assume. Privacy. Better that than the truth.
Mira’s eyes narrowed. She’d caught the drag in Celine’s step. The weakness hidden in the rhythm of her gait. She wanted to call her out, to force her to accept her help, but guilt flooded her. She felt she'd let Celine down. Her instincts were screaming that she should have rushed in sooner.
Rumi, too, saw it—but what unsettled her most was how long Celine’s eyes had lingered on them before she turned away. And she couldn’t help but wonder if finishing the lesser demons was the right choice, if she could have avoid this.
>You should have played with us when you had the chance, little flame< the voice replaying in her mind, no matter how hard she tried to shut it. And her hands trembled harder, her chest tighten. She knew she could have avoid it.
Her mind spiraled: she remembered when it was her in between their web, and how she came out mostly unharmed. So why did it go different with Celine? Could even this demons see how weak she was? Was she not perceived as a hunter, a threat? Just how much of a failu-
A hand pulled her to the ground. She landed sitting with her hands by her side. The golden ring burning in her sight as she looked up and saw Mira sitting next to her. Mira’s hand stayed on her arm, but her eyes where glued to the container Celine had walked into.
“We’re not doing this here. We move first. Heal second. Everything else—later.” Mira's voice was clipped, soldier-like, but her hand was trembling. She wouldn’t let them see how much she was shaking inside, wouldn’t let the fear show—but the effort of swallowing it was written in her jaw, tight and clenched.
"Doing wha-" Rumi’s claws had tore through, her nails blackened and sharp, the transformation climbing up her arms with each heaving breath. She didn’t notice, not the paterns taking over, not the skin turning purple arround them.
The markings were a symptom, and she could feel herself losing ground to it. But when she saw Mira still holding her arm—saw the blood drops were Celine had been—her fury broke against something softer: grief. Her claws trembled, uncertain whether to lash out or fold inward.
Mira let go of her. Rumi sat there on the grass, legs crossed, hands clossed on her knees, staring at the weak light of the fires still burning.
The silence pressed on her chest like a weight. Mira was only a few feet away, but she felt impossibly distant, like the two of them were standing on opposite sides of a cliff.
Words kept bubbling up in Rumi’s throat—I’m sorry, I’m useless, you should lead, why do you keep saving me?—but none made it past her lips.
Every syllable tasted like defeat before she could even speak it.
Mira leaned forward, arms crossed around her knees, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere past the container. Her body screamed exhaustion, but her face stayed firm, unreadable. She wanted to say something—anything—to bridge the gap. To remind Rumi she wasn’t alone, that she wasn’t as broken as she thought.
But the truth pressed against Mira’s ribs like shards of glass: she was tired, she was scared, and part of her still resented Rumi for Zoey’s injury. She bit down on the words, afraid they would come out sharper than she meant.
Rumi risked a glance at Mira. The sight of her sitting composed, unshaken, burned. Of course she doesn’t crack. She never cracks. The thought spiraled into anger, hot and bitter. Anger at Mira for holding it all together, anger at herself for falling apart. She should lead. She already is.
She doesn’t need me anymore.
The betrayal stung, but so did the relief—relief that someone strong enough was carrying the burden Rumi kept dropping. It made her feel both furious and small.
Mira’s eyes flicked toward Rumi, catching the storm brewing in her expression. For a heartbeat, Mira almost softened, almost said you’re enough, I’ve got you.
But then her own thoughts shoved in: If I lean on her now, she’ll break again. If I tell her how heavy this is, she’ll shatter. I can’t lose her. I can’t lose either of them. So instead, she kept her arms folded, her jaw set, her silence loud.
The air thickened with unspoken things. Rumi clenched her fists, desperate to demand answers: Why do you keep treating me like glass? Do you think I’m that fragile? Do you think this is my fault? Do you even trust me anymore?
But the words tangled with her shame. What if Mira said yes? What if she agreed? The thought hollowed her stomach, and so she stayed quiet, trembling under the weight of questions she couldn’t ask.
Mira’s chest ached at the sight of Rumi’s demon transformation, at the way her shoulders curled in, and her fist shook. She wanted to put a hand on her shoulder, say I know you’re hurting, I don’t blame you. But she couldn’t erase Zoey’s pained face from her mind, couldn’t silence the whisper that Rumi’s decision had helped put them there.
And worst of all, she couldn’t forgive herself for letting it happen. Let alone letting it happen a second time. That guilt sealed her throat, keeping her rooted where she sat.
Rumi finally whispered, “You don’t trust me anymore.” The words slipped out before she could stop them, raw and small. Mira’s breath caught, but she didn’t answer.
Because the truth was complicated. She did trust Rumi—just not with everything, not right now. And admitting that felt cruel. So she said nothing, she bit her tongue to make sure she said nothing, and the silence stretched until it became an answer of its own.
The quiet cut deeper than any blade. Rumi turned her face away, swallowing the lump in her throat. Mira closed her eyes, pressing her head into her knees as if it could hold her together.
Neither spoke for a while.
They sat next to each other, both aching for closeness, both terrified that reaching for it would only make the fracture wider.
"Do you think she needs help?" Rumi finally said in a weak whisper.
"It's been 6 minutes. Wait." Mira said clipped, certain. And Rumi wondered if she had been counting the seconds again, as she did when Zoey’s heart stopped.
"Why do you think they did this to her?..." The thought blurt out and Rumi realized to late to stop it. But now that it was out she was going with the momentum, aching to hear Mira's voice. Her words dropped rambling "I mean, they didn't- they weren’t- this aggressive with me, not physically."
"I don’t read minds...you should ask your friends." Mira aimed to tease at the fact they were obsessed with her, but she fumbled- catastrophically. Her words came sharp, direct. And when she realized panic leaked to her eyes.
"MY FRIENDS?" Rumi’s voice cracked like a whip, shaking the air, cover in dark undertones. She stood up , facing Mira. Her claws flared sharp, black and glinting with a sickly shimmer as the purple skin surged further up her arms.
She looked monstrous and small all at once—more like prey cornered than predator. Her body trembled with the weight of too many accusations, too many doubts turned inward until they lashed outward.
Mira’s hands stayed raised, palms out, she had jumpped to her feet, her stance both defensive and pleading. “I didn’t mean it like that, Rumi,” she said, words spilling faster, sharper than she intended. “It was a joke. A terrible joke. I wasn’t thinking.” Her voice caught, the apology raw but clumsy, almost swallowed by the storm building between them.
But Rumi wasn’t hearing it. The word friends rattled in her skull like a curse. The twins laughter echoed under her skin, their mockery twisting Mira’s slip into something poisonous. You’re not a hunter. You’re not one of them. You’ll never be more than the weak link.
Her chest heaved, eyes burning, gold tinting her full field of view. “Is that what you think?” she demanded, stepping closer. Her claws flexed at her sides, twitching with every thrum of her pulse. “That I’m not one of you? That I don’t belong here?”
Mira shook her head fiercely. “No. Rumi, no—”
“Then why won’t you trust me?!” The words came jagged, breaking as her voice rose. The honmoon reacted. Rumi saw it and for once she didn’t care. She was tired of holding back. “Why do you look at me like I’m going to break? Like I already broke?”
Mira’s throat closed around the answer. Because I’m scared you’ll get hurt again. Because I can’t lose you. Because Celine is- Zoey almost- She couldn’t say it. Not without shattering, not without blaming. So she said nothing, and that silence was worse than anything she could have admitted.
Rumi’s claws curled inward piercing her own hands, trembling between violence and grief. Her breath hitched, and with it the tension snapped.
She lunged—not at Mira’s throat, not yet, but forward, shoving against her with raw force, enough to rattle bone and drag them both dangerously close to a fight neither of them truly wanted.
Mira caught the hit, stumbling back but holding her ground, her own instincts flaring to strike, to defend. Her fists clenched, body coiled tight, one heartbeat away from lashing out.
For the first time that night, the world fell quiet around them—not because the danger had passed, but because the most dangerous thing left was the fracture opening between them.
“THAT’S ENOUGH!”
Celine’s voice cracked like a whip.
Both Mira and Rumi froze, their heads whipping toward her.
She stood unsteady, her frame trembling under its own weight. One arm clutched a small girl against her chest—barely one or two years old.
The child’s tiny hand was tangled in Celine’s hoodie. The other arm braced against the container, as if her body might give way at any second. Even from here, Mira and Rumi could see the pallor of her skin, clammy and drained. They couldn’t see the blood anymore—hidden under Rumi’s hoodie—but they knew it was there.
Mira cracked. Two tears slipped down her face, her eyes locked on the little girl. One. We saved one, she thought, as if repeating it could make the rest bearable.
Rumi staggered forward, gaze fixed on the child. The raw wound of her failed rescue seemed to knit, just slightly, under the sight of this fragile, living proof that something had been saved. But then the girl’s eyes—wide, terrified—landed on Rumi.
The child flinched and buried her face into Celine’s chest.
The hit was devastating.
Celine’s jaw tightened as she saw it. Slowly, she shifted, her knees threatening to buckle with each step, and passed the child carefully into Mira’s arms. The girl clung instinctively, her tiny fingers gripping Mira’s collar.
With her hands free, Celine took a faltering step toward Rumi. In her palm was a strip of fabric—what was left of her own blouse, torn ragged at the edges.
“Rumi,” She said softly but firmly “I need to take care of your wound.”
But Rumi wasn’t hearing her anymore. The girl’s frightened eyes had branded themselves into her skull, overlapping with the lifeless gaze of the little boy she hadn’t saved.
Her own breath tore ragged from her throat as the realization clawed through her: what she had almost done to Mira, what she already had done, the Honmoon’s pulse still thrumming under her voice.
Her hands looked for the sleeves of her hoodie, as if covering herself could make her shame disappear.
Instead she found her own skin realizing just how exposed she was.
Her eyes moved fast jumping from her hoodie, Celine’s eyes, the little girl hiding her face in Mira’s shoulder, Mira.
She fumbled for words, her mouth opening and closing, until a strained "I can't- " slipped out on a ragged breath.
Her chest heaved. Her claws shook. And then—
She retreated.
She ran.
Chapter 23: Twin shadows
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
A cloud of pink smoke unraveled into the air, dissolving as all demons did—but this one carried a copper tang, sharp and metallic, the iron-blood scent that marked it as theirs.
From that fading stain, the twins emerged as though the battlefield itself had conjured them.
They lounged in the shadows, the din of steel and screaming now only a distant hum in their ears. Slipping free of the chaos with practiced ease, they looked less like fighters retreating and more like performers exiting stage left after a successful act.
Their boots touched the fractured stones like dancers crossing a stage, the ruin and carnage around them reduced to nothing more than background music.
Neither bore so much as a scratch; instead, their bodies thrummed with a restless vitality, like wolves fresh from the hunt and still hungry for more.
One stretched lazily, the sharp tips of his claws catching a sliver of moonlight. He turned his hand, watching the sheen of red still smeared there. “Mmm,” he murmured, voice curling with amusement. “She bleeds like she fights — sharp, but not sharp enough.”
His brother’s grin widened. “Celine,” her name said like a joke, like it was already worn out and small. “The way she bristled every time we stepped close? Delicious. She’s convinced she can hold steady. I almost believed her.”
The first twin drew his tongue along the length of his claw, slow, deliberate. The taste was metallic, copper-sweet, but it was more than blood. “Fear has a flavor too” He savored the words. “And she gave us both at once.”
The other let out a laugh, the sound echoing oddly in the empty space around them. “You should have seen her face when you pressed in. Like she didn’t know whether to strike or run. And still she stayed — for that trembling little flame behind her.”
The one with blood on his tongue leaned back, teeth flashing in his grin. "It was her we wanted to watch unravel. The woman is just the string we pull.”
They traded glances, and in that silent exchange was their favorite kind of thrill: the knowing they shared, the cruelty they did not have to explain.
One flicked his claw through the air, scattering the last of the drying crimson into the dirt. The other watched, his smile never faltering.
“She’ll remember tonight,” the first said with certainty.
His brother leaned closer, lowering his voice as though confiding a secret. “And the best part? She’ll think about it when she’s alone. Replay it. Hate herself for hesitating. That’s the real wound, isn’t it?”
Together, they laughed again, twin shadows feeding on the echo of their own cruelty. For them, the fight hadn’t been about victory.
It had been about taste, about fear, about the exquisite joy of turning strength into doubt. And Celine, with all her grit and fire, had given them exactly what they wanted.
The twins crouched high on the railway overpass, surveying their prey, rubble shifting under their boots as they pulled out two matched hunter’s lenses.
The ruined train yard beneath them, blackened fields sprawled out like a carcass ready for carving.
Their gaze swept the carnage with lazy satisfaction.
“Leaving the bodies behind was a nice touch. It’s the little details…” one whispered almost to himself, while a smirk started to form.
“Look at her,” he murmured, tilting his head as though he’d discovered a cracked toy left out in the rain. His grin flashed thin and cruel, glinting like a blade fresh off the whetstone.
“Such a handy, oblivious tool.”
His brother snorted, shoulders shaking as laughter peeled from his chest. “Leaving a hunter such a useful legacy...” he dragged the words out, savoring them, “oh, her daddy knew exactly what he was doing.”
The first saja leaned forward, eyes gleaming, voice low and intimate, as if whispering straight into Rumi’s skull. “She was born for this. And yet...” he paused, lips curling, “still pretending she has a choice.”
The second twin’s grin widened, teeth catching the dim light as he bent closer over the void. His words dripped with glee. “Choice? No, no. Little flame lost that the moment she so much as looked our way. Didn’t you feel it, Gwang? That shiver in her aura- that delicious crack running right through her soul?”
They matched each others posture to the last hair, so naturally it was hard to say who followed who. Laughter spilling between them like mirrored reflections playing tag. Their eyes never left Rumi, though; it was as if she were already bound to their orbit, a star trapped between twin black holes.
“She fights so hard to keep herself whole,” Gwang sighed, almost pitying. “But we both know how this story ends. A shell, empty, hollowed out, nothing left but the Inferno.”
“The Honmoon blowtorch,” the second twin whispered reverently, mockingly placing a hand over his heart. “Our personal Honmoon blowtorch. How beautiful she’ll be when she stops struggling. How-”
"-quiet." They said, in tandem.
Gwang smirked wider, fangs catching the light. “Yes, but not useless. She’ll sear through the others for us, won’t she? ” his tongue lingered on the words, tasting them, “—all of them reduced to meat by their precious Rumi’s-"
“Claws.” The other finished, eyes gleaming with cruel delight. “Those lovely claws she’s trying so hard to hide. I want to see them paint the ground red. I want her to look down one day and realize—she can’t tell the difference between herself and us.”
Their laughter overlapped again, a duet of mockery. Around them, the chaos left by the fight blurred, irrelevant. They fed only on the tension tightening around Rumi like a noose.
“Do you think she’ll scream?” Heuk asked, tilting his head, as though discussing wine notes. “Or will she just… collapse? A puppet that doesn’t even need strings anymore.”
“Oh, she’ll scream,” the second promised, lips curling into something feral. “They always scream before they go silent. And when she does… oh, Heuk, brother, it will be music. Our toy, our inferno, our little hollow flame.”
They leaned toward each other then, foreheads nearly touching, their voices a conspiratorial murmur meant to carry. “All she has to do is break. Just once. Just let go. And then she’ll never find herself again.”
Their eyes locked back on Rumi, hunger burning there, but beneath it—something like certainty. They didn’t taunt because they hoped. They taunted because they knew.
“She will be ours,” they said together, voices overlapping into a single, dreadful harmony.
Gwang steadied the binoculars against his face, lenses reflecting the chaos below. “Look at her. She’s flailing.” His voice carried a low, almost reverent amusement, like a priest savoring a hymn.
Beside him, Heuk rocked back on his heels, jittery fingers drumming against the railing. “Flailing? No, no—look closer. She’s unraveling.” His grin split wide, feral, teeth catching what little moonlight spilled between clouds.
Through the glass, Rumi’s power spasmed outward again, purple tint racing along her skin, patterns lit like molten threads. The battlefield around her bore the evidence—scorched stone, bodies broken in careless arcs of violence.
“Purple,” Gwang whispered. “It’s starting. The fever after the cough. She’s on the edge, Heuk. One more push and she won’t come back.”
Heuk lowered the binoculars with deliberate slowness. His eyes gleamed, black as tar. “Too soon. Always too soon with you.” His tone dripped indulgent mockery. “Let her choke on the leash a while longer. It’s sweeter when they think they can still fight it.”
Gwang pouted theatrically, then broke into a giggle that spiraled into something sharper, cracked. “Patience, patience, patience. Where’s the fun in waiting if the fruit’s already rotting in our hands?”
Heuk’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
They both turned back to the sight below. Mira and Rumi had gotten on each others faces, their bodies taut with unspoken argument. Even without hearing the words, the tension wrote itself in the jagged lines of their movement. Until it exploded.
“Ohhh…” Gwang sang softly, leaning forward with childlike glee.
Heuk chuckled, a sound dry as bones scraping. "Our seeds are blooming.”
The savoring cut short when a figure re-entered the scene below. Celine, drained but steady, child clutched against her. Her limp was sharp, visible even from their height.
Gwang’s grin widened into a cruel crescent. “Those idiots missed one.” His voice was a blade dragged slow across glass
Heuk chuckled low, the sound catching like smoke in the throat. “She only got to live a little longer.”
Their laughter rose together—uncanny—as Rumi’s figure vanished into the wreckage.
"Now, we wait."
Their voices tangled together in a haunting, ominous harmony, extending through the air until it faded in the silence.
-----
Mira took half a step after Rumi before stopping cold, jaw tight. Chasing her would only drive her deeper into the spiral. Celine knew it too. The two stood there, staring after the vanishing blur of their teammate.
“I’ll fix this,” Mira said at last, voice hard, swearing it into the air. Still holding the child, her free hand flexing open and shut like she was trying to grab onto something slipping through her fingers.
Celine’s gaze stayed on the fog where Rumi had disappeared. Her answer came quiet, but edged—sharp without meaning to be, the threat of a parent's warning leaking through. “I know you will.”
The echoes of Rumi’s fear resonating with their own as their gazes linger where the third hunter had been.
Celine's eyes cut toward the scattered ash at their feet, then back to Mira. “For now, we need to pay Dr. Kang a visit.”
Mira didn’t argue. She only moved to adjust the little girl into her arms with surprising gentleness. As she straightened, she stepped toward Celine, the weight of the child balanced against her chest. For once, Celine didn’t shift away.
Instead, she let her stance soften—just slightly—before draping one arm over Mira’s shoulders. A subtle shift, a quiet acknowledgment.
Decision born from necessity, from the sharp realization that even she couldn’t stand steady alone forever.
Together, they turned away, carrying their burdens into the night.
Notes:
Their names meanning: Heuk (“dark”), Gwang (“madness”).
(Why did it took me 23 chapters to formaly introduce the Antagonist you wonder?
Well this is technically still my first fanfic. Just enjoy what comes from intrusive thoughts + hyperfixation. )
Chapter 24: The last thread
Summary:
Rumi felt the weight of the crossroad pressing down on her chest.
The first path lay in front of her—dark, painful. It pulled at her like destiny itself, quickening her transformation the harder she resisted. And yet she fought anyway.
Still pretending she didn’t already know where it led.
The second path stretched toward the only life she’d ever known—hiding, vanishing, letting guilt bury her until nothing remained but absence.
The last one was uncharted, terrifying in its own right.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Rumi ran until the muscles in her thighs burned like fire under her skin.
Each stride felt heavier, her knees trembling with the force it took to keep going.
Her tennis shoes struck the pavement in uneven thuds, splashes of water shooting up from puddles, soaking through the fabric clinging to her calves.
The night air scoured her lungs raw, every inhale slicing deeper, every exhale strangled back before it could escape as the sound wanting to claw its way free—a ragged cry, a furious howl, something.
But she strangled it back, shaking her head as if that alone could tame the storm inside her. Not a gasp, not a sob, not a scream, not a word.
Her arms pumped, her claws trembled so badly she had to curl them into fists just to keep moving forward. It was easier to run than to stop.
Stopping meant the spiral would catch her. Stopping meant the weight would slam into her chest all over again.
Her breath tore itself into frantic fragments—half gasps, half swallowed sobs.
She bit them back until her jaw throbbed, her throat raw, but the noise kept threatening to break through.
It felt like drowning in her own silence.
Shame stalked her in every footstep, whispering that she wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t human enough, wasn’t safe enough to be with them.
Each pounding stride became a punishment, a rhythm that kept repeating the same words: monster, failure, monster, failure.
She wanted to run faster, to outrun it, but her body betrayed her—her legs slowed, her breaths turned ragged, her head spun with dizzying pulses of heat.
Her vision blurred. The edges of the world wavered as if it, too, rejected her presence. The mist clung to her eyelashes, streaking into her eyes until they burned.
She tried to blink it away, but more came—wet, stinging, spilling in streams she refused to name as tears.
Finally her legs gave. A sudden give-way, like the ground itself had reached up and yanked her down. She staggered two steps more before her knees hit stone with a sharp crack, pain radiating up her thighs.
Her palms slapped the wet pavement, catching her before her body folded entirely, but the impact rattled her bones, sent shudders rolling through her arms.
She stayed there, on her knees, hunched forward with her forehead nearly pressed to the ground. Her chest heaved, dragging air in broken gulps that sounded dangerously close to sobs.
She tried to clamp her mouth shut, shaking with the effort of forcing her cries back down, but the harder she fought, the shakier her body became.
She was unraveling, every seam tearing loose.
Mira’s words lashed at her—you’re so busy feeling everything you forget to think—while the child’s face, pale with fear, cut through the noise like a blade. And Celine—bleeding, yet still so composed—looking like everything Rumi wasn’t and never could be.
The images collided until she couldn’t tell which hurt worse, which part of herself she wanted most desperately to escape.
She had lunged at Mira. She had failed to protect Zoey. She had placed Celine in danger. How could she allow herself near either of them?
She pressed her fist against her mouth, biting into her knuckles hard enough to sting, trying to dam the sounds before they slipped free.
The silence was collapsing, and she couldn’t hold it anymore.
And then—on an exhale that broke into a sob before she could stop it—one word tore free.
“Zo-ey.”
It slipped out fragile.
Trembling
The way a child calls for the only safe person they know.
The moment it left her lips, her whole body froze, her shoulders locking as if she could reel it back.
But the name lingered in the damp air, vibrating in her ears louder than the pounding of her own heart.
She realized, with a shudder, what she had done—who she had reached for without thinking. The very person she had failed, now the one her soul betrayed her by needing.
Her chest collapsed forward, forehead pressing into the hands she didn’t recognized anymore as she gasped, broken and shaken.
It wasn’t supposed to be Zoey. She wasn’t supposed to need anyone, not anymore, not after all she had ruined.
In that crushing silence after the name, she finally understood how deep her spiral had gone.
That she wasn’t just running from them—she was running from herself. And she felt the weight of the crossroad pressing down on her chest.
The first path lay in front of her—dark, painful. It pulled at her like destiny itself, quickening her transformation the harder she resisted. And yet she fought anyway.
Still pretending she didn’t already know where it led.
The second path stretched toward the only life she’d ever known—hiding, vanishing, letting guilt bury her until nothing remained but absence.
The last one was uncharted, terrifying in its own right: reaching out, holding onto the last person who might still see her beneath the wreckage.
The last thread left when everything else had slipped through her hands.
The thought twisted inside her, sharp as a blade.
But then came the colder truth: losing herself would be worse. And she was already too close to the edge—close enough that the slip almost felt inevitable, almost real.
She was willing to risk that hope even knowing she might destroy it with her own hands.
Her throat clenched, and this time she didn’t stop it.
The tears broke free, her sobs clawing their way out, raw and ragged.
She let them go.
Let herself unravel.
And when the storm inside her left her gasping, she pushed her hands against the ground, trembling, and forced herself upright.
The sound of her shoes against wet stone betraying her unsteady feet. Still, she stood, her weight shifting subtly from one foot to the other, her knees locked in a precarious bid for balance.
"Zo..."
______
Zoey had been playing the same riff for nearly half an hour.
Her fingers moved automatically, tracing the opening line of What It Sounds Like again and again on the keyboard.
It was the only thing keeping her hands steady. The notes fell in a loop, thin and hesitant. Each time she thought she might stop, silence pressed too hard against her chest—so she began again.
Her shoulders hunched, bare foot tapping restless rhythm on the carpet. Every few minutes she glanced at the door. The apartment felt too large without the others—air heavy, walls echoing. Just the faint smell of the untouched gummies next to her filled the space.
And under her ribs burned that low heat again: that she wasn’t out there with them. That she was stuck here, healing, while they faced whatever waited.
Then—soft steps in the hallway.
She froze, hands flattening on the keys, letting the sound die.
The faint creak of the floorboards reached her through the half-open door.
At first, she expected Celine or Mira, polished and steady. But what she saw made her stomach knot.
It was Rumi.
Rumi faltered before the half-open door, willing her body to straighten, to hold herself together—but she couldn’t. Mud clung heavy to her pants. Her cropped tank top was splattered too, the white fabric contrasting with the purple shade spreading across her arms and torso. Not faint. Not an edge. The color had overtaken her skin.
Her claws curled into her palms until tiny cuts split open. The sting anchored her, barely. But her chest felt cracked, her breath uneven, her voice gone.
When Zoey’s head lifted from the keys, Rumi nearly turned back down the hall. She didn’t want to be seen like this.
Not by her. Especially not by her.
But her legs betrayed her, carrying her the last few steps until she stood framed in Zoey’s doorway, trembling.
Zoey froze, the chord she’d struck collapsing into silence. For a heartbeat she thought her eyes lied. The glow in Rumi’s eyes wasn’t faint—it was unnatural, leaking across her face. The patterns had taken over her entire body, and most of her skin didn't looked like it belonged to this realm.
Shock slammed into her, but memory pierced sharper: Rumi’s whisper one night, brittle as glass—'When they’re not moving… that’s when it hurts the most.'
Her stool scraped back too loud as she stood, pulse pounding. Words broke rough out of her throat:
“Rumi? Are you okay? What happened? Where’s Celine, where’s Mira?”
Rumi wanted to answer. To reassure Zoey. To at least lift her head. But the moment she tried, everything inside threatened to rip wide open.
Her throat locked. Shame clamped down hard. The shame of running, the shame of almost losing control, the shame of standing here drenched in failure.
If she spoke, the words would bleed. If she moved, she might lunge.
Her claws ached where they dug into skin. She felt monstrous—half herself, half something she couldn’t cage.
And yet… Zoey moved toward her anyway.
Her hand hovered in the space between them, unsure, scared. Not scared of Rumi’s glow—not really—but scared of doing the wrong thing, of pushing her further into the spiral.
Still, she lowered it, laid her palm steady on Rumi’s shoulder. And watched Rumi buckle beneath it.
The warmth startled her. She hadn’t realized how much weight she’d carried alone until it leaked out all at once under that single touch. Her patterns still glowed wild, but something in her chest loosened against Zoey’s palm.
Neither spoke. Zoey’s other hand lifted, then faltered halfway, unsure, and dropped back. But the quiet wasn’t empty.
Rumi felt it—the steady current of trust threading through, wordless but fierce. The cold colors on her skin retracted little by little.
Zoey’s chest tightened. Fear stayed—but resolve burned hotter. This was what recovery had been training her for: to stand ground, to stay present, to hold when someone else couldn’t.
Time folded strange after that. The keyboard behind them sat silent, the last note long gone. Only their breaths filled the room, two uneven rhythms slowly syncing.
Rumi's claws uncurled. Shoulders sagged. Each inhale caught, but steadied. The shame didn’t leave—but the edge of panic dulled.
Zoey’s thumb brushed lightly near the wound, not probing, just resting there. Her eyes searched, desperate for proof Rumi was still present.
Rumi’s head lifted an inch, eyes flicking up to meet Zoey’s. Just a flicker, just enough to search for fear, but not long enough to let it sink if she found it.
But Zoey didn’t recoil. She stayed.
Zoey’s voice broke first, softer than she meant, almost coaxing: “Nod if Celine and Mira are safe.”
Rumi’s body screamed to stay motionless—but she forced the tiniest nod, almost imperceptible.
Relief slipped Zoey’s shoulders down. Her hand stayed firm, as if she were holding on for both of them. “Let’s sit down, okay?” she added, gentler now, like guiding a wounded animal toward safety.
Rumi blinked, disoriented. Her patterns still shone too bright, chaotic swirls glowing against her skin with every shallow breath. She didn’t trust her legs. But she let Zoey guide her.
Zoey’s hand slid from shoulder to forearm, giving a careful squeeze before she extended her other hand.
Rumi hesitated. Her claws pressed against Zoey’s skin—not enough to cut, just enough to remind her what she was. A silent beg: Don't let me hurt you.
Zoey didn’t flinch.
Rumi barely made it to the bed. Her body felt like a frayed wire, heat still crawling under her skin where shame had burned her raw. Every step was heavy, unsteady, as if she was walking through the thick fog of her own failure.
Zoey matched her pace exactly, one step behind, slowing on purpose—making sure Rumi didn’t feel rushed, didn’t feel like a burden.
When Rumi sank onto the mattress edge, her shoulders slumped forward, Zoey’s hand caught her by the elbow. The touch steadied her, weight redistributed carefully until she was seated. Across her arms and collarbones, the faint patterns shimmered weakly, then dulled to a low, unsteady glow. Embers starting to die out under that touch of reasurance.
Zoey lowered herself into a crouch, voice soft.
“Let me.”
She pulled the kit from beneath the nightstand—gauze, antiseptic, water. Her hands moved slow, deliberate, the steadiness of someone who knew what it meant to heal piece by piece.
Her own recovery had taught her this rhythm. One careful step at a time.
The first cool press of cloth drew a sharp hiss from Rumi. Her shoulders jerked back before she could stop herself.
Zoey froze instantly. “Too much?”
Rumi shook her head, jaw tight. She needed this. Needed the sting, needed someone else’s hands steady where hers couldn’t be. She hated that even comfort felt like pain.
Zoey continued, slower this time. Each dab soaked away blood, wiped mud, cooled burning skin. She forced her own breathing into a calm rhythm, and after a few moments, Rumi’s breaths synced to it—uneven at first, then steadier.
The glow in Rumi’s eyes flickered, receded. Her claws softened back into fingers, trembling as they twitched against the mattress.
Zoey let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Relief hit her hard enough to make her eyes sting. She finished wrapping the wound, tucking the bandage snug, hands never rushing. When she looked up, she found Rumi watching her.
Not blank. Not angry. Searching.
For a long stretch of silence, neither spoke.
Zoey’s hand rested lightly on Rumi’s knee, not pulling away, not pressing closer. Rumi stared at the floor, then at Zoey’s hand, then at Zoey’s face.
Her lips parted and closed again, her throat working around words she couldn’t quite give voice to.
She hated herself for needing this. For needing Zoey. She could already hear Mira’s sharp voice in her head: You’re so busy feeling everything, you forget to think. And she was proving her right. Weak, trembling, selfish enough to drag Zoey down with her.
Her fingers clenched on the blanket. Tension built until it spilled out, ragged, raw.
“I ran away.”
The words tore at her throat, scraping like glass. She forced more out, shaking her head as if that might undo them.
“I… ran away from them.”
Her chest twisted. This wasn’t about the fight—not really. It was the fear that had stalked her for as long as she could remember: that she was a coward. That she’d always fail the people she loved, that when it mattered most, she would break. She braced herself for Zoey to recoil, to pull her hand back, to leave.
But Zoey didn’t move.
Inside, Zoey was reeling. The sight of Rumi undone like this—patterns fading, eyes flickering, pain pouring off her like heat—terrified her.
It triggered sparks of her own memories, the battlefield, the moment she had almost bled out on the street, Mira’s frantic voice pulling her back.
Her PTSD itched like a live wire. And next to it anxiety built up whispering what if Celine and Mira aren’t okay? what if this is the last safe breath you get?
She felt the static in her head getting louder, her heart throwing hard against her chest, and wanted to defuse the moment in the only way she knew. Her lips twitched.
"If you’re auditioning for ‘Most Dramatic Collapse,’ I might have competition...”
But the words died inside her throat.
Too flippant. Not now.
She forced herself to stay present. For Rumi.
Because beneath the fear was something stronger: resolve.
Rumi had always been the sharp one, the one who fought hardest, hid behind fire and rage. To see her trembling like this, ashamed and desperate, broke something open in Zoey—but not into pity. Into loyalty. Into choice.
Her hand stayed firm on Rumi’s knee. Her voice stayed low, steady, even as her pulse hammered.
She wanted to reach for her phone, to text the others—let them know Rumi was safe, that she was here. But she stopped herself. This wasn’t the moment.
Rumi needed her whole presence now. Needed to know Zoey wasn’t going anywhere.
And so she stayed. Holding Rumi with quiet steadiness, refusing to let shame define the silence.
Notes:
I know Rumi’s spiral was overwhelming, it was intentional. (She was pretty overwhelmed too)
Hopefully it wasn't exhausting to read.
We are setting the girls to have the hard conversations they have been avoiding. So stay tunned!
As always thanks for reading!
Chapter 25: Especially like this.
Chapter Text
Rumi sat stiff on the edge of the bed, her body coiled like a spring that couldn’t unbend.
The quiet between them pressed heavy, the kind that scraped at her skin rather than soothed. Her throat burned from words she’d already forced out—I ran away—but more still clawed there, fighting for air.
Zoey clenched her jaw, forced her breathing slow, modeling steadiness for Rumi. Her hand remained on her knee. Her brain itched with questions, with guesses, but she shoved them down. Don’t chase. Don’t demand. Just… be here.
That stillness dug at Rumi’s chest, leaving her both grateful and unbearably exposed.
“Okay," Zoey said softly, squeezing Rumi’s knee once. Her own heart tripped over itself, her mind stumbled in the buzzing, but her voice stayed level.
Rumi bit her lip hard. She hadn’t expected Zoey to stay this long, and the thought of losing her now made her throat sting. Would she leave if she knew the whole truth?
Her eyes dropped, her body shrinking into itself with the mere thought. As she shook her head, hair falling forward off her messy braid. “You’re going to hate me.”
The youngest blinked fast, her thoughts scattering. She searched Rumi’s eyes. The hesitation there, the quiet panic—it didn’t add up. Her mouth opened before her brain filtered. “Rumi, what—hate you? That’s not—”
She cut herself off, biting down. The dark matte lines all over her friend reminded her just how far she was under. Don’t argue. Stabilizers, not counterpoints. She tried again, steadier:
“I’m right here. Not moving.”
Rumi’s fingers clenched in the blanket. Her breath hitched, uneven.
“I don’t… I don’t belong here anymore.”
The last words were nearly inaudible, whispered like a child’s fear.
Zoey’s chest hurt at the sound. “Then I guess I’ll just… sit here anyway. Belonging or not. You’re stuck with me.” Without hesitation. Binding.
Rumi’s lips parted, trembling on an inhale. “You don’t want me here, do you?”
Zoey swallowed hard, pulse lurching. She leaned into the weight of her own heartbeat.
“You can hate yourself all you want,” Steady despite the burn in her chest, “I’m still going to be here.”
Rumi shut her eyes as though the words stung. For a moment she sat rigid, shoulders locked—then the fight sagged just slightly, her head dipping forward. “They… they don’t stop.” The words came in fragments, choked, unmoored.
Zoey frowned, mind sparking to fill gaps she didn’t understand. They? Demons? Nightmares? Her own thoughts? She pressed her heel into the floor, grounding. One thing at a time.
“What don’t stop?” She asked gently, but she didn’t push when Rumi shook her head.
“They laugh,” Rumi whispered. Her voice scraped out like glass dragging concrete. “Always laughing. Waiting. Watching. Like… like I’m trapped on stage.”
Zoey’s stomach knotted. Her brain fumbled for boxes to fit the words—last fight, the Twins, her own scars—but none matched. So she let go of the sorting. She just nodded, steady. “That sounds awful.”
Her hand stayed—warm, grounded, a tether.
Rumi’s chest hitched. Breaths came quick, shallow. “If I break again—” Her jaw snapped shut, cutting the words off sharply, like they might cut her if spoken.
Zoey bent closer, lowering until their eyes locked. “Then you break,” she said, firm, without pity. “And I’ll still be here to pick up the pieces. That’s not negotiable.”
Something deep inside Rumi flinched. Her instinct to argue burned on her tongue—you don’t get it, you’ll regret this—but Zoey’s tone lodged heavy in her ribs, unmovable.
Zoey shifted onto the bed, every movement deliberate. She set her hand out—not taking, not pressing—just offering.
Rumi’s gaze flicked down. Hesitation pulled across her features; fear sparked. But she let Zoey lace their hands. She searched Zoey’s face like she expected betrayal to leap out at any second. Or maybe something solid to cling to.
She didn’t know which scared her more. Her lips trembled as the words slipped free.
“I always run. From the fight, from them—… from you.”
Her fist clamped hard in the blanket, knuckles pale, faint light pulsing at her wrist.
“You’re better without me,” she whispered, conviction breaking her voice.
For a moment, silence was a palpable thing, thick and heavy, until the city's din outside Zoey's balcony broke through.
“I need you,” Zoey said at last, low and certain. She didn’t pile on reasons. Just leaned closer, her hand firm around Rumi’s. “I want you here.”
“…Even like this?” Rumi rasped, raw and fragile.
“Even like this,” Zoey answered, without hesitation. Softer: “Especially like this.”
This silence softened instead of cutting. Rumi’s shoulders sank for the first time, her body tipping sideways until she folded against Zoey’s shoulder.
Zoey let their hands slip apart only to circle an arm around her, pulling her in tight.
“They... hurt Celine.” Rumi breathed.
Zoey jolted, breath catching sharp. Her body went rigid before easing when Rumi added, “She is… okay.” The word shook, more prayer than certainty.
The clock's pulse throbbed like a wound, each beat a raw, ragged reminder of what hung in the balance.
The maknae’s jaw worked, swallow thick. Her voice came hushed, careful.
“…Rumi… when you say ‘hurt’… what do you mean?”
Rumi’s lips parted, then pressed shut again. Her eyes stayed pinned to the blanket twisted white in her fists.
“They… cornered her.” The words dragged out low, frayed. An image: Celine trapped between the twins with a blade gliding through her skin. “She was— was one breath too slow and—she bled."
Zoey's chest constricted at the word 'cornered'. The image clawed at her mind, but she shoved it away, her spine stiffening as if ice slid down it. A tremor escaped before she could stop it.
Rumi felt it and reached for her knee, uncertain whether to ground her or keep her close. Zoey's lips twitched, her eyes fixed on her feet as her mind fogged.
A moment hung suspended as she steadied her breath, jaw set, muscles rigid. Her mouth dried, a faint iron taste lingering. She didn't speak, her chest already knowing what her mind dared not ask.
Rumis voice pulled her back.
“I couldn’t save—” Rumi’s words muffled against her shirt. “ I couldn’t… reach the kid.”
Zoey’s chest locked. Her palm rubbed slow circles along Rumi’s back, steadying even as her own throat cinched. Her mind spun with too many kids not saved in time.
“Why do I—why do I get a bandage and he doesn’t even—he doesn’t get to—” Exhaustion seeped through the singers body like water through cloth, drowning the sharpness of her memories until all that was left was static.
Zoey waited, anxious to fill the gaps before her brain filled them for her. She held Rumi tighter, recognizing her inner voice bleeding raw into the air.
Rumi tried to speak again, but the effort splintered. The memory of not recognizing her own hands pressed in. "They... know— I know..." The words scattered out of her, unmoored from sense.
Her eyes had lost focus, lids half-drooped as if each blink took more weight than her body could carry.
Zoey shifted closer, and allowed her thumb to brush against Rumi's shoulder softly. In acceptance.
She remained there. Quietly and steady. Just there. A lighthouse in the fog.
The silence that followed wasn’t jagged this time. It stretched soft and light, wrapping around them without pressing down.
In that quiet, Rumi’s shoulders finally surrendered, rolling down as though the strings holding them upright had been cut. "So...rry" under her breath.
Zoey caught the faint hitch in her breath, sharp at first, then softer, slowing. She watched the stuttered rhythm smooth into something closer to sleep.
The fight in her body let go before the fight in her mind did.
The black-haired girl stayed right where she was, letting her touch say what words couldn’t: still here. still here. still here.
Rumi’s body trembled with the aftershocks, but the storm inside finally slowed. For the first time in hours, her lungs found a rhythm.
Zoey shifted just enough to ease her weight against the mattress. “Get some rest,” she murmured. “I’ll keep watch. No laughing freaks get past me.”
Rumi blinked slowly, exhaustion dragging her lids down. She wanted to fight it, to hold on to the walls she’d built—but Zoey beside her was too steady, too sure. Her head tilted, resting against the pillow, her breath hitching once before it smoothed out.
Zoey drew the blanket over, gently, until Rumi lay in the middle of the fold.
She lingered a heartbeat longer, making sure her breathing stayed even. In the dim quiet, she let herself exhale too—careful, shallow, as if the sound could shatter the fragile peace Rumi had found.
Chapter 26: Fifteen minutes.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Only when Zoey rose did she feel the tremor return, creeping into her arms, her jaw.
She slipped out of the room quickly, closing the door on soft hinges. Resting her back against the hallway wall, she finally let herself move.
Her phone slipped into her hand, screen flaring too bright in the hush. She scrolled to the Hunting group chat, thumbs hesitating before she typed.
Zoey: Rumi is with me.
She stayed on the screen longer than she meant to, long enough to catch the flicker of Mira’s bubble—appearing, then vanishing, as if words couldn’t settle.
A ping.
Celine: Is she okay?
Zoey’s fingers hovered, shaping an answer, but another vibration cut across the screen. Not in the group this time. Private.
Zoey’s thumbs hovered over the screen, pulse still uneven. She typed back into the group chat first.
Zoey: She’s exhausted. Shaken. But she’s safe. With me.
Her throat tightened at the last two words. With me. It felt both fragile and defiant.
Zoey’s chest ached. Okay wasn’t a word she could give right now—not honestly. She swallowed, forced her fingers steady.
Then the private message lit up the screen.
Mira: Keep her there. Please. We’ll be there in 15, 20 tops.
Zoey’s breath stuttered. Mira’s words carried something raw beneath them. It pressed heavier on her ribs than the quiet in the penthouse.
Her reply came quick, instinctive.
Zoey → Mira: I’ll keep her. Don’t worry. She’s not alone.
She hit send before she could second-guess. Then she stared at the thread, heart hammering.
The hallway light flickered faintly. Zoey pressed the back of her head against the wall, phone clutched tight in her hand.
Relief warred with a gnawing pressure: relief that backup was coming, that she didn’t have to carry this alone—but also the pressure of time, of holding steady for just a little longer.
She glanced back at the closed door, the muffled quiet on the other side. “Fifteen minutes,” she whispered under her breath, voice rasping with exhaustion. “I can hold for that long.”
_____
Zoey stayed where she was, pressed against the wall, her shoulders slumped from the weight of waiting. The phone rested in her palm like a stone, screen dim now, but her fingers still gripped it tightly.
The hallway light hummed above her, flickering in uneven pulses. She thought she’d count them until the others arrived, but her mind drifted, chasing scraps of thought too sharp to hold.
When the elevator doors clicked open, her chest jumped. She straightened, brushing her hair out of her face with a shaky hand. The bedroom door behind her was half open now, letting out a ribbon of shadow, the steady hush of Rumi’s breathing just barely audible.
Mira stepped in first, tension riding her shoulders. She scanned the hallway before her eyes landed on Zoey. A muscle in her cheek twitched, but she said nothing, only dipped her chin in acknowledgment.
Behind her, Celine followed, quieter in her steps. Her posture wasn’t as stiff as Mira’s, but Zoey caught the faint drag in her movement, the way exhaustion clung to her frame.
And there—something in Zoey’s chest warmed unexpectedly. Celine was wearing Rumi’s hoodie, the sleeves a little short on her arms, the fabric familiar in its faded softness. The sight softened the air between them for a moment, something fragile.
Zoey’s voice came out hushed, as if the walls themselves might betray her if she spoke too loud. “You’re here.” It wasn’t much, just two words, but relief threaded through them, and the quiet was deliberate—as though she didn’t dare wake the girl behind the door.
“Where is she?” Celine asked. Her tone was direct, but not cold. The urgency was wrapped in gentleness, as if she already knew the answer but needed to hear it aloud.
“Resting in my room,” Zoey murmured, angling her head toward the half-open door.
Celine’s feet carried her forward before anyone else moved. Zoey watched the stiffness in her gait, the faint sway that betrayed her own fatigue. She wasn’t untouchable tonight—she was human, worn, and barely holding her weight together. At the bedroom door, she paused, her eyes softening as they found Rumi’s sleeping form.
For a moment she just looked. Her gaze lingered, steady and unguarded, like someone who had carried too many masks all day and could finally set one aside. Then, as if drawn by something magnetic, she stepped closer. Her hand reached out to adjust the blanket, tugging it gently higher until it rested under Rumi’s chin. The movement was slow, careful, reverent.
Mira froze a half step behind her. She hadn’t expected Celine to go straight in. Her body locked, shoulders rigid, her chest rising unevenly. For a breath she seemed like she might surge forward, might close the distance in one rush and gather Rumi into her arms—but she stopped herself at the doorframe. Her knuckles whitened around the wood as if gripping it could tether her in place.
Zoey moved closer, quietly, until she stood beside Mira. She didn’t say anything—just watched. Watched Celine bent over Rumi, watched Mira straining not to move, watched the quiet between them hum with all the things they never said.
Her eyes lingered on Celine longer than she meant to. There was something about the way Celine’s hand still rested on the edge of the blanket, as though letting go would undo her.
“I will stay with her,” Celine said finally. Her voice was soft but certain, the kind of tone that didn’t invite argument. She didn’t look back when she spoke.
Zoey and Mira exchanged a look—wordless, charged. Mira’s eyes flickered sharp, searching Zoey’s face for something, but whatever passed between them went unspoken. Then Mira turned sharply, heels pivoting against the floor, and strode toward the kitchen. The tension still clung to her frame, but her steps were decisive.
Zoey lingered. She couldn’t quite leave yet. Her gaze stayed fixed on Celine, who remained bent at the bedside. The mask Celine wore—the calm, the certainty—looked frayed at the edges. Zoey noticed the tiny tremor in her fingers as they pressed against the blanket, the faint tightness in her mouth as if holding her face still took effort. For the first time, Zoey saw not just the strength but the cost of it.
And in that moment, she understood Rumi would be safe here. Even if she woke to find Celine at her side, the quiet care in the room was undeniable. Zoey drew in a breath, let it settle in her chest, and turned to leave.
But as she crossed the threshold, something caught her eye.
Just a flicker in the corner of her vision—Celine’s head bowing low, her lips brushing Rumi’s forehead in the gentlest of touches. Zoey didn’t stop, didn’t call it out. She only carried the image with her as she walked down the hall, its weight lingering like a secret.
She followed the quiet drip of a running faucet.
Zoey lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, letting the faint hum of the fridge settle in her ears.
Mira hadn’t moved, her palms flat against the counter as if she were bracing against the world. The glass of water in front of her caught the kitchen light, reflecting a tremor that wasn’t in the water but in Mira herself.
Zoey padded forward, bare feet soft against the cold tile. “That’s not how you make it boil, you know?” Her tone was light, teasing, but it carried a tremor of its own.
Mira’s shoulders flinched almost imperceptibly before she released a short breath through her nose. A snort, barely there, but real. “Just thinking,” she muttered, voice low.
Zoey caught that faint crack in Mira’s armor and clung to it like a rope. She slipped closer, fingers brushing over Mira’s shoulder before resting there. The warmth of the contact seemed to startle Mira more than the words had. Zoey waited, letting silence do the heavy lifting until Mira’s eyes finally turned to meet hers.
“A dollar for your thoughts?” Zoey asked softly, head tilted just so, as if offering Mira a way out while also daring her not to take it.
Mira let out a slow exhale. Then she shifted, turning her body so her hip leaned against the counter beside Zoey. The move looked casual, but Zoey could feel the tension in her arm, how the muscles resisted letting go.
Her hand slipped from the shoulder, falling loosely to her side.
“She’s asleep,” Mira said, voice stripped down to its base steel. “And those things are still all over her.”
Zoey’s brow furrowed. “Mmm?”
“I thought—” Mira’s jaw ticked. Her gaze locked forward, refusing to meet Zoey’s now. “I thought if she was asleep, she’d get a break from it.” The admission came out in a huff, sharp as frustration but softer underneath. Her lips pressed thin. “Forget it.” She pushed herself off the counter, taking the glass of water with her, and walked to the table.
Zoey followed, quick as a shadow, sliding into the chair across from her. Without hesitation, she reached out, plucked the glass from Mira’s hand, and tipped it back.
Mira’s brows shot up, her whole body snapping taut in surprise. For a second her stoicism cracked wide open—her lips parting, her shoulders stiff, caught between indignation and disbelief.
Zoey thumped the empty glass on the table, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Being the messy glue holding us together is exhausting,” she declared, hand to her chest in mock-dramatic flair.
The corner of Mira’s mouth twitched despite herself. She shook her head, tension bleeding from her shoulders as her lips curved into a reluctant smirk. “You’re ridiculous.” She rose, the chair legs scraping softly against the floor, and moved to the sink.
Zoey watched as Mira filled two fresh cups. Her movements were measured, deliberate, but lighter now—her back not quite so rigid. She returned, placing one glass in front of Zoey with a precise clink before settling into her own seat.
Zoey smiled into her glass as she took a sip. “You know…” she began, letting the words dangle. Her eyes lifted, locking on Mira’s. “You never say what you really think about her. About… you two.”
Mira didn’t flinch. Didn’t roll her eyes or scoff. She simply raised the glass and drank, slow and even, her face locked in unreadable stillness.
Zoey leaned forward on her elbows, narrowing her eyes. “Okay, then. Just sit there all stoic. I can out-silence you. Bet you five ramen packets you’ll talk first.”
The ticking clock filled the silence, each beat stretching the air tighter. Mira’s gaze never left her glass.
Zoey tried again, her voice smaller now, fragile. “Hey, Mira…” She twisted her thumbs together around her cup, eyes fixed on the rippling water inside. “It was them, right? The Twins?”
Mira’s head turned sharply, her eyes narrowing like a blade. The air shifted. She was trying to gauge just how much Rumi had said.
Zoey’s gaze stayed low, but her voice pressed on, steady. “Is Celine okay?” Finally, her eyes lifted. There was no teasing there, only raw worry.
“She will be.” Mira’s words came fast, clipped, but her jaw betrayed her, clenching tight. She set her cup down with a muted thud. “Doctor said she was lucky, how and where the blade slid. I’m sure it hurt, but the actual damage was minimum.”
Her voice should have been reassuring, but the twitch in her cheek, the flick of her gaze to the side, carried something else. The unspoken question: luck, or intention?
Zoey swallowed. Her chest rose unevenly before she let the words spill. “I think… I’m scared of them.” She let the sentence hang, unfinished but heavy, eyes boring into Mira’s.
Mira tilted her head slightly, her expression sharpening. “Why?”
“Because they’re still out there.” Zoey’s hands trembled around the cup before she set it down firmly, as if anchoring herself. “They did this to me, and they’re still out there. Still free to hurt Celine. Still haunting Rumi.”
Mira’s face shadowed, the shift almost imperceptible. For a breath her expression darkened into something sharp and dangerous, then smoothed into unreadable calm again. But her knuckles whitened where her hand gripped the table’s edge.
Zoey leaned back, watching the war play out across Mira’s features—the mask she wore and the crack beneath it. The silence stretched, and Zoey knew she’d landed close to the truth.
She didn’t push right away. Instead, she sipped her water, pretending to be casual while her eyes never left Mira’s. She let the silence do the work, because she knew Mira: silence pressed harder on her than words ever could.
Mira shifted, finally, exhaling through her nose, shoulders tense again. “They won’t touch her,” she said. The vow was quiet, but it thrummed with steel, her body coiled like a blade unsheathed.
Zoey studied her for a long beat, then let a small, soft smile bloom. “See? There it is.”
Mira’s brows furrowed. “What?”
“The part where you admit you care so much it’s eating you alive.” Zoey leaned forward, voice gentle now, not teasing. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Mira blinked once, long, as if the words cut deeper than they should. Her lips parted, then pressed shut again. But her hand trembled faintly on the glass.
Zoey reached out, resting her fingers lightly against the back of Mira’s hand. “Talk to me, Mira. About her. About you. About… all of it. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
"It's not that simple, Zoey. It's never simple with her."
Zoey blinked at her. “So? Since when do you like simple?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Mira’s tone sharpened.
“It used to be. And you guys seem okay when we are together... but when it is just you and me? You get that rock face when I mention Rumi. What’s up with that?”
Mira’s lips pressed flat. She reached for her cup, lifting it slow, deliberate, as if drinking could buy her escape. “Nothing. She’ll be fine.”
Zoey leaned closer, propping her chin on her hand, a crooked smile tugging her mouth. “Yeah, sure. Totally fine. That’s why you look like you’re chewing glass every time she breathes wrong.”
The muscle in Mira’s jaw ticked. Her lips pressed together so tightly the color drained from them. “Zoey.” One word, sharp as a warning blade.
“Come on,” Zoey said, her voice dropping, soft but steady. “I see you. You care about her… a lot. So why does it sound like you’re trying not to?”
Mira’s throat bobbed. For a moment, silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the fridge and the faint drip of the faucet. Her knuckles whitened on the glass, fingertips pressing so hard they left smudges against the condensation.
“She…” Mira’s voice cracked low, then steadied. “I don’t know how to reach her anymore. Every time I try, she pulls further away. And if I push, she—” Her breath cut short, sharp. She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Zoey tilted her head, studying her like a puzzle. “So you freeze instead? Pretend she’s fine, and pretend you don’t care if she’s not?”
Mira’s lips curved in a humorless twitch. “Better than driving her off completely.”
“News flash,” Zoey said gently, tapping her knuckles against the table, “silence doesn’t read as safe. It reads as distance. And she feels it.”
Mira exhaled hard through her nose. Her fingers drummed once against the glass, restless. “She spirals. Every time. And it collides with me, with the way I… I need control. She lashes out, and I lock down, and it just…” She snapped her fingers quietly, a brittle sound. “Breaks apart.”
Zoey’s eyes softened. “So you’re both fighting yourselves and each other at the same time.”
Mira’s shoulders sagged a fraction. “I want to fix it,” she admitted, the words barely audible. “But I don’t know what fixing looks like with her.”
“You don’t have to be perfect with her,” Zoey continued, her tone steady. “Just… be with her. Like you are with me. Letting her know you don’t hate her for struggling. That you can take it, even if it’s messy.”
Mira’s gaze finally lifted, meeting Zoey’s. The guarded steel was still there, but beneath it flickered something raw, something frightened. “What if I make it worse?” she whispered.
“You won’t.” Zoey reached across the table, fingertips brushing the back of Mira’s hand. Her touch was light, grounding. “You’re already her anchor. You just have to let her see it.”
Mira blinked, once, long. Her lips parted as if to argue, but no words came. Instead, she closed her hand around the glass tighter, though she didn’t pull away from Zoey’s touch.
The silence stretched, not heavy this time, but thick with something unspoken. Zoey let it linger, giving Mira space to breathe inside it.
Finally, Mira’s voice came, rough but steady. “I’ll… talk to her. Tomorrow. Not about everything. Just…” She hesitated, searching. “Something real.”
Zoey’s grin bloomed wide, bright enough to crack the tension in the room. She leaned back, throwing her arms wide in mock-celebration. “Look at you. Miss Communication Skills, twenty-twenty-five edition.”
Mira groaned softly, rolling her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the faintest twitch upward.
Zoey tapped the table with both hands as if sealing a deal. “That’s it, then. You bring the honesty, I’ll bring the ramen packets. We’ll call it progress.”
Mira shook her head, but her shoulders loosened at last. She lifted her glass again, sipping slow, steady. And this time, when she set it down, her hand no longer trembled.
Zoey studied her for a long moment, smile softening into something quieter. She didn’t press further, didn’t poke at the wound. She just sat there, letting Mira’s presence settle into the room beside her.
The clock ticked on, steady. The water in their glasses stilled.
Silence was almost gentle.
----
Mira eased the door open, careful not to let the hinges creak. The room was dim, painted in the faint spill of city light filtering through the curtains. In her hands she carried two things—simple, ordinary objects, but they weighed heavier than they should.
Her eyes landed first on Celine. She was curled up in the oversized pink beanbag shoved into the corner, limbs folded awkwardly like she’d collapsed there without meaning to. Sleep had caught her in mid-battle; her shoulders were tight even in rest, her face drawn with fatigue.
Mira crossed the floor on silent steps. She crouched, the blanket bundled in her arms, and eased it down until it draped over Celine’s frame. The fabric whispered against her skin as it settled. For a moment, Mira’s hand lingered on the edge of the blanket, brushing the seam as if she could smooth away the exhaustion written into Celine’s body. Then she straightened, retreating a step without a sound.
Her gaze shifted to the bed. Rumi lay there, smaller somehow in the wash of shadows, her chest rising in slow, shallow rhythm. Mira’s steps slowed the closer she drew, until she was standing at the edge of the mattress.
She stood there a long moment, watching. Without thinking, her own breath synced with Rumi’s—inhale, exhale, a mirror rhythm that grounded her in place. Each rise and fall seemed to pull something taut inside her, something that had been wound too tight for too long.
In her other hand, she still carried the second object: her hoodie. The one Rumi had always teased her about, always reached to touch when Mira shrugged it on. “Looks so soft,” Rumi would say, a grin playing at her mouth. “Bet it’s warm enough to melt ice.”
Mira folded it once, twice, neat, as though the precision could steady her hands. Then she set it on the nightstand beside the bed, close enough that Rumi would see it first thing when she woke. A silent offering, warm and solid in place of words she still couldn’t speak.
She let her gaze linger one more beat—on the hoodie, on Rumi, on the fragile peace breathing steady in the room.
Then Mira turned. Her steps carried her back toward the door, every line of her body controlled, contained. But the air she left behind carried more than silence.
It carried a promise—Tomorrow. Not running this time.
Notes:
It took me a while to work in this chapters.
I wanted them to be one. They wanted to be two.
Hopefully the care of the girls voices was worth the wait.
(I added chapters to the other 2 works in this series if you would like to read something in the meantime.
As a reminder I often reference those here.)
Chapter 27: Wound care
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Rumi blinked into consciousness.
Her body ached, her legs burned, and her mind felt wrung out, like the fog of yesterday hadn’t quite lifted. She turned her head and recognized the walls, the shelves—the comfort of Zoey’s room.
But Zoey herself was nowhere in sight.
Slowly, she pushed herself upright, every movement dragging memory closer. That’s when her gaze caught on the figure in the corner. Celine. Slumped in Mira’s beanbag, clearly asleep, but the posture made it obvious—she had been watching over Rumi.
The blanket across her shoulders was warm and familiar. Mira’s. Her eyes drifted again, catching the nightstand. The clock showed 3:22am. A hoodie lay there, crumpled but distinct. Mira’s hoodie. Her fingers reached out before she thought about it, tracing the fabric, tugging it into her lap.
For a moment her mind tried to reason it away.
Maybe it was Zoey’s, something Mira had left here once, and Zoey kept it. But no—Mira never let anyone borrow this hoodie. Not once. That fact sat heavy in Rumi’s chest.
She glanced back at Celine, the blanket tucked carefully around her, and then down at the hoodie again. Nothing here was random. Every piece had intent. She folded the hoodie neatly against her lap, almost afraid of what it meant.
Her thoughts drifted, not sharp with emotion but distant, almost clinical. She felt like she was watching from the outside—her own body, her own home, these people orbiting her life.
Celine curled in the corner. Mira’s hoodie, here of all places. Zoey, absent but present in the choice of where she’d been left to rest. The scene unfolded around her as though she were only an observer, detached, too worn down to belong inside it.
The fog made it easier to pretend the moment was about anyone else. A quiet tableau that carried weight, yet didn’t press against her directly.
She catalogued details instead of feelings, movements instead of meanings. It was safer that way. Easier than confronting the truth that she was still broken, still carrying the mark of the fight and the shame of what she had unleashed.
And yet… Celine had fallen asleep keeping watch. Zoey hadn’t flinched even when Rumi had been at her lowest. And now Mira’s hoodie rested against her lap, like a tether she didn’t know if she was allowed to hold.
Her chest tightened, torn between letting hope take root and fanning the anger that still smoldered—anger at Mira’s distance, at the silence wedged between them. As if all their battles side by side could be undone with a step back.
She drew in a long breath, then let it out in a slow sigh. She didn’t need to decide which fire to feed yet.
Gathering the hoodie in careful hands, she rose and left Zoey’s room, retreating quietly into her own.
The minutes bled into hours before she realized.
Time had folded weirdly arround her, now sunlight poured through the living room windows, the penthouse alive with noise and movement. The warm smell of breakfast still lingered—hotteok and tea, soft reminders that Celine had been in the kitchen earlier.
Her body still numb and distant, she wrapped herself in the softness of Mira's hoodie, telling herself it was just for the comfort of the fabric against her aching muscles.
But when the pink-haired's gaze met hers for the first time that day, Mira's yawn transformed into a fleeting, unguarded smile – a gesture she tried to brush off, one she couldn't quite hide.
An unspoken pact hung in the air, a collective decision to skirt the edges of yesterday's events. For a fleeting moment, they let the stillness of the morning wash over them, a fragile peace that felt almost palpable.
Zoey sat on the floor, her back resting against the couch, scribbling something in one of her notebooks.
Celine occupied the armchair in the corner, posture perfect, ankles crossed. It had almost become her designated place—her quiet perch, the one from which she observed the girls with sharp, unreadable eyes.
Rumi sat curled in one corner of the couch, legs folded beneath her, deliberately distant.
And Mira lay sprawled on the cushions just behind Zoey, one arm bent under her head.
“…musical chairs with our rooms again. Rumi’s bed was really comfortable,” Zoey said lightly, flashing a grin.
“Nobody is playing musical chairs with my room,” Mira sentenced flatly.
“Fun police,” Zoey muttered, folding her arms in an exaggerated pout.
“Troublemaker.” Mira’s smirk broke through her deadpan. She reached over, ruffling Zoey’s hair with lazy affection. Her phone buzzed but she ignored it.
Zoey laughed and ducked her head, pretending to fight her off.
From the armchair, Celine’s lips curved faintly as she took a measured sip of tea. She had grown accustomed to seing the girls like this, but still it filled her heart everytime.
Rumi only watched. Her face unreadable, silence heavy in her chest.
But Mira caught it—the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her eyes lingered too long, the quiet hollow behind them. She sat up, clearing her throat, steering the air somewhere else.
“Celine. What’s going to happen with the little girl?”
Celine’s brow arched slightly. Her eyes flicked from Mira, to Rumi, then back again.
“Ria... She’ll stay with Doctor Kang for a week. She’s malnourished and traumatized. Thankfully she wasn’t hurt.”
Zoey’s head popped up at once, wide-eyed and relieved. “Really? That’s good. That’s so good.”
Mira exhaled through her nose, a slow nod—composed, but the tightness in her jaw betrayed how hard she’d been bracing for worse news.
"She’s safe." Rumi shifted barely at all, but her fingers curled inward against her knee.
“What will happen with her after that week?” Zoey asked, tilting her head.
Celine set her teacup down with a faint clink. Her voice slowed. “I was thinking… I would like to… I may adopt her.”
For a beat, silence swallowed the room.
Then Zoey burst upright, practically bouncing. “Wait, really? That’s amazing! She’ll have the coolest older sisters. We can play games, I’ll teach her music, we can take her to the tower rooftop—oh my gosh, she’s gonna love it here.”
Mira blinked once, surprise flickering, but she caught it quickly, masking with composure. “I… think I’d like that. Having her around.” She let the thought trail, unfinished, but the fresh guilt in her chest pressed heavier.
Rumi froze.
The words cut sharper than she expected. Sharp enough to pull her back.
Her mind pulled her to a younger version of herself giving Celine a wildflower from the temple garden as a gift, expressing her gratitude for her care. Celine, dismissively seting it aside, remarking that flowers wilt and don't last.
And she stood there waiting expectantly for a warmer response, but instead received only silence while Celine continued focus on her writing.
Her fists tightened in the sleeves of Mira’s hoodie until the seams strained, the violet threads of her patterns flickering faint against her skin.
She hated it—hated how easily Celine carried herself now, steady and composed, the kind of presence that could anchor anyone. How she cared for Zoey, how she supported Mira, how she fell asleep protecting her.
The kind of parent someone would be lucky to have.
And the thought gutted her. Because all she’d ever known from Celine growing up was the cold edge of duty, a legal guardian who signed papers and set rules but never softened. Who broke her down so thoroughly she still doubted if love was something she deserved at all.
And now this girl, Ria, could have everything she had ever wanted for herself. Everything she fought for through blood, sweat and tears.
Selfish, she told herself. Selfish for wanting Celine just for me.
She said nothing. Her silence roared louder than anything she could have spoken.
Zoey couldn’t stop herself—words tumbled out faster than her hands could move. She was already sketching wild doodles in the corner of her notebook, ideas for games, sleepover forts, the kind of makeshift adventures only she could invent.
“She’ll get her own blanket fort,” Zoey said with a laugh, waving her pencil for emphasis. “I’ll make sure it has fairy lights! And when she’s ready we can teach her dance—oh, maybe not my kind, Mira’s kind, she’ll trip less—”
Mira rolled her eyes, but the faintest smile tugged at her lips as she sat back. She didn’t add much, only another quiet nod, but her fingers tapped restless against the couch cushion, betraying her unease. The thought of a child in the middle of their fragile orbit twisted inside her—part comfort, part reminder.
A second chance. If she could guard this girl hard enough, maybe the weight of failing the others wouldn’t feel so suffocating.
Celine’s gaze focused on Zoey a moment longer, watching her energy brighten the room, before drifting inevitably to Rumi. She remembered all the responsibilities of rasing Rumi, all the emotions, her first words, learning to sing, perfecting a form—and then she noticed.
The hoodie sleeve strained against Rumi’s tightening grip. Her head was still, her expression a mask, but the air around her hummed faintly with violet flickers that she couldn’t quite hold down. Her eyes, though—her eyes never left Celine. Too sharp, too long, as though she were trying to burn holes into her without a single word.
Celine’s breath caught in her throat. Not out of fear, but out of instinct—the kind that told her something was unraveling, even if she couldn’t name it. Rumi’s silence wasn’t empty. It was suffocating. And the faint lines crawling across her sleeves only confirmed what she already knew: the girl was breaking again, even if she’d rather tear her tongue out than admit it.
“Won’t it be hard? With everything going on… raising a child can be—” Mira’s voice was cut short.
“A challenge.” Rumi’s answer was clipped. Sharp, but controlled.
Celine laughed. A real laugh, unguarded—something the girls had never seen. She covered her mouth attempting to regain composure.
“A challenge was raising you while I still had to perform to keep the honmoon steady. While I hunted alone. While I built you a home when the floor had already fallen from under my feet.”
Her laughter ebbed, fading into something quieter. Her mind jumped between a memory of herself in stage, the reflectors too bright over her, no one on her side to look at; and an image, the picture in her office Mi-yeong, radiant in stage lights with a baby in her arms.
A small smile lingered, her gaze focused on Rumi, her eyes softening with what Zoey would have called pride. Maybe even love.
“Compared to that, this is a walk in the park. Even if I am… older now.” She finished lightly, reaching for her tea and sipping without thought.
The silence that followed was thick. The girls were stunned—not just because Celine was being vulnerable, but because she’d touched the post–Sunlight Sisters era. A place she usually refused to tread. Mira’s eyes widened.
Zoey swallowed hard. She knew this was usually off-limits, and yet, in this moment, it felt reachable. “How… why were you hunting alone? There were still two of you left…”
Celine’s lips pressed into a line. Her gaze shifted to the window. “The dark side of a bond this strong is that when one part of it collapses, the others tumble after. We couldn’t be together without…” She sighed. “…we still can’t.”
Her eyes flicked from Mira to Rumi, unable to hold steady on either. “You know. You lived through it too.”
For a second Rumi and Mira glanced to each other.
The porcelain clinked too loud as Celine set her cup down. She straightened, forcing composure back into her spine.
“I’ll check in with Doctor Kang later,” she said, as though the conversation had already ended. But her gaze brushed Rumi one last time—searching, and failing to find whatever it was she needed.
“I’ll… leave you three to your morning.”
She rose with deliberate grace, footsteps soft against the floor as she crossed to the elevator. The doors slid shut, and with her departure the tension didn’t ease—it lingered, static in the air.
Zoey was buzzing still, scribbling furiously, her words tumbling about rooftops and kite-flying. Mira’s smirk had vanished, her eyes cast down, caught somewhere between calculation and worry. And Rumi sat unmoving, Mira’s hoodie clenched so tight in her fists her knuckles ached.
The air between them thickened, heavy and unspoken. It wasn’t going to stay quiet much longer.
Zoey’s pencil scratched against the page, filling the air with the faintest rhythm, but it wasn’t enough to cut the weight pressing down on them.
Mira shifted, drawing her legs down from the couch. Her gaze slid briefly to Rumi—hoodie sleeves pulled so tight the seams trembled, her jaw rigid, her stare locked anywhere but at them.
Mira cleared her throat. “We should get some practice.”
The words landed flat, like an anchor tossed into water.
Zoey froze mid-doodle, eyes flicking up. Rumi’s head turned, slow, her brows tightening.
Mira pressed on. “Just—we need to move. Reset.” Her fingers flexed once against her thigh, restless. “It’s easier for us that way.”
Rumi swallowed hard. A spark of memory cut sharp through the fog—the flash of her own body surging forward, Mira’s startled eyes just before she slammed her back. Pressure grew in her chest. She forced her gaze down.
“I don’t think that’s—” Her voice cracked, quiet but sharp. “Not after yesterday.”
“Rumi—” Mira leaned forward, softer now. “It wasn’t—”
“I lunged at you.” The admission broke sharper than she meant, as though dragging the words out cost her more than the action itself had. Her eyes flicked away, shame raw. “You can’t just… pretend that didn’t happen.”
The pencil snapped in Zoey’s hand. The sound cracked louder than it should have. She stood suddenly, fire in her eyes.
“Then spar with me.”
Both Rumi and Mira turned toward her, startled. Zoey’s voice didn’t shake.
“I’m done sitting out. Done waiting around while you two circle each other like everything’s only about you.”
Her hands balled tight at her sides, splinters of wood from the broken pencil digging into her skin, but she didn’t flinch.
“I’m back. I’ll spar with both of you. With or without your help.”
Notes:
This was a bigger roller-coaster than I expected.
I had to break this chapter in 2, next part is also posted.
Chapter 28: What we can't say
Chapter Text
The trio stood in the center of the studio, the mats cool beneath their bare feet. Rumi had taken off the hoodie, the black thank top exposed the dark lines that hadn’t change since last night.
No one spoke. Mira rolled her shoulders back, stretching her arms like she was loosening muscle, but her eyes never left Rumi’s.
She stepped forward first, sliding into stance — precise, steady. She wasn’t going all out, but she set the tempo. The weight of initiation.
Rumi mirrored her, though her movements carried an edge too sharp, too brittle. Her stance snapped into place like glass pulled tight, ready to shatter.
Zoey hung back at first, bouncing lightly on her toes. Her body betrayed her — stiff one moment, fluid the next, as though every nerve had to remind her where it belonged.
Mira moved. Quick, decisive, a testing strike toward Rumi’s shoulder. Rumi blocked, but the force carried her back a step. She answered with a sharp kick — clipped, efficient. Mira caught it, twisted, and nearly swept her leg out.
It felt like old rhythm, but something inside it was wrong.
They clashed harder, faster. Mira’s palm strike glanced off Rumi’s ribs, Rumi’s elbow caught Mira’s guard. For a second it looked like the machine of their old sparring days — strike, counter, pivot, advance — but then Rumi didn’t dodge.
She took Mira’s blow full across her shoulder, the crack of impact echoing.
Mira froze for half a breath, eyes flashing in confusion. Did she—let me hit her?
The hesitation was enough — Rumi’s fist stopped just shy of her chest, deliberately pulled.
Mira’s jaw tightened. She didn’t know if Rumi had done it on purpose or if she was simply unraveling, but either answer scraped raw against her chest.
“Stop holding back,” Rumi muttered, her voice low, almost desperate.
Mira’s answer was a strike — tighter, sharper, but her eyes searched Rumi’s face as much as her guard.
Zoey darted between them, forcing the exchange apart. “What about me?” she snapped, landing a fast jab at Mira’s side. Mira twisted, absorbing it with a grunt. “Or do I just get to watch?”
Her movements were messy at first — a kick half-committed before she pulled back, a feint aborted midway as doubt caught her muscles. She stumbled, then drove forward anyway, ignoring the ache in her still-healing chest.
Rumi’s head whipped toward her. “Zoey—”
“Don’t Zoey me!” Her voice cracked like glass. “I’m done waiting. Done being the one you protect. I’ll fight you both if I have to.”
And she did.
Her next strike was determined, pain flashing in her eyes, but it connected — a spinning kick that clipped Rumi’s hip and forced her sideways. Mira lunged in, trying to corner her, but Zoey ducked under and shoved back hard, shoulder-first into Mira’s chest.
Mira staggered. Rumi blinked, stunned.
Zoey’s face twisted with effort, breath ragged, but her body refused to stop — even when it faltered. A jab pulled short became a knee strike instead, hesitation flipping into improvisation. She was second-guessing herself with every move, and still she pressed forward.
She winced — but didn’t stop. She slipped on her landing — but turned it into a roll, springing up wild-eyed and determined.
Mira lunged again, but this time Zoey didn’t dodge. She met her head-on, teeth clenched, fists hammering through the doubt.
They’d have to stop her. One way or another.
Zoey’s movements grew sharper, less controlled — every strike landing with the kind of desperation that ignored consequence. She drove forward, feinting left before twisting low, her shoulder slamming hard into Rumi’s midsection.
Rumi staggered, lost her footing, and hit the mat with a dull thud, breath tearing from her lungs.
Mira lunged instantly, arm sweeping wide to catch Zoey in the rebound — but Zoey slipped out, rolling across the floor and springing back to her feet before Mira’s grasp could close. A flash of wild determination burned in her eyes as she backed a step, chest rising and falling in jagged pulls.
"Are you going to forget—I'm in the room again?" Zoey talked through a smirk, her words cut by the labored breaths.
On the ground, Rumi forced herself upright. Her palms pressed against the mat, pushing slow, her body trembling from the blow. She dragged in air like it weighed a hundred pounds.
When she finally lifted her head, her eyes found Mira’s across the room.
The look held. A beat of silence between them, heavy with all the words neither had said, and all the ones they both feared.
Before they knew it Zoey had advance again, running straight to Mira. A round kick from Mira forced her into a crouch. But she rose in a snap, chest heaving, eyes fever-bright. She charged again, ignoring the pain etched across her body, every movement powered more by fury than strength.
Her blows came wild but fast — a storm of punches and kicks Mira deflected by inches, each strike landing harder, closer, until Mira was forced back step by step across the mat. The sound of knuckles cracking against forearms, the scrape of bare feet pivoting on canvas, filled the room.
“Zoey—stop!” Mira barked, parrying another strike, sweat sliding down her temple. Both her palms shot up defensively, trying to halt the fight she herself had started. “We get it. I’m sorry. We won’t walk around eggshells with you anymore.”
“You’ll do— more— than that,” Zoey hissed, breath jagged, voice breaking. Her body snapped forward again, fists flying.
Each punch bled into the next — a flurry of quick jabs, a snapping kick that Mira only half-blocked. Every strike was punctuated by gasps that weren’t just effort but desperation, her chest heaving too fast for air to keep up.
“I won’t be—left behind—waiting—” she groaned, words spilling out between shallow gulps of breath, “…not again.”
Her leg swept up in a high kick. Mira barely ducked it. The younger girl’s grunt tore from her throat, ragged and raw.
That was when Rumi moved.
Her arms locked around Zoey’s from behind, sliding under her armpits, holding tight across her chest. “Enough,” Rumi hissed into her ear, her voice trembling with the effort of the grip, and yet tinted with plea.
But Zoey twisted, body slick with sweat and stubbornness, refusing to be pinned.
She spotted Mira in front of her, chest rising heavy, hands still raised — and seized the opening.
With a burst of reckless power, Zoey planted her foot against Mira’s knee, then hips, and finally collarbone and vaulted upward. Mira’s eyes widened as Zoey stepped off her, too close, too sharp, the last push grazing her jaw.
Zoey flipped over Rumi’s head, body twisting in the air, before crashing down behind her in a crouch. One knee and one hand dug into the mat, her other arm clutching her chest as though trying to cage in the fire raging beneath her ribs.
Her breath tore from her in broken gulps, each one harsher than the last.
Rumi spun, startled, every muscle tight. Mira stepped forward once, then froze — unwilling to push Zoey further, unwilling to see her snap.
The room rang with the echo of her movements, then silence — only the ragged pull of Zoey’s lungs, the tremor in her arms, the stubborn fire in her eyes even as her body screamed surrender.
For a moment none of them moved.
Then Zoey swayed, just slightly — shoulders sagging under the weight of what she had forced herself through. The fight had ended not with a strike, but with her body giving in before her will ever would. She tried to rise — her legs trembled, refusing. Her hand pressed hard over the scar at her chest as if she could keep it from tearing open again.
“I’m—fine,” she rasped, forcing a grin that didn’t reach her eyes. Her voice cracked on the word. “See?" But she wasn’t. Her body was folding, shaking, every muscle betraying her stubbornness.
Rumi was the first to move. She crossed the mat in two steps, dropping to her knees in front of Zoey. Her voice was low, steady, but her hands trembled as they reached for her shoulders.
“You can kick my face if you want, I dont care” Rumi said, jaw tight, eyes fierce. “I’m staying here.”
Zoey laughed weakly — a hollow sound — and swayed into her.
Behind them, Mira’s fists clenched, her chest rising too fast. The phone was in her hand before she realized, her thumb shaking as she hit the call. She turned away from the mat, voice sharp, clipped, carrying every ounce of her anger at herself for letting this happen.
“Come to the dance studio,” she said, then hung up. Nothing more needed.
Zoey’s smile broke. Her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached, trying to hold it in. No sound, no weakness. But each breath scraped louder, harder, as if her body was punishing her silence.
Her vision blurred. And then memory crashed over her — the weight of her own limp body carried through smoke and chaos, Rumi’s arms locked under her, the cold stretcher waiting, Doctor Kang’s sharp commands. She bit down harder, but the pressure only made the air thinner, her chest tighter.
“Zo.” Rumi’s voice softened, steady as her hands. She eased her back, laying her down gently onto the mat. The hairs that had slipped of her braid fell forward, strands sticking to her damp face as she leaned close, her words like anchors in a storm.
“Don’t hold it back. We know you’re strong. You don’t have to prove it.”
Zoey’s breath hitched. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy, and when she forced them open she was met with Rumi’s tears dripping onto her skin. Warm trails running into her own.
Her own vision flooded. And for a moment, it was impossible to tell whose tears were falling anymore.
The studio doors burst open.
Celine’s heels clicked against the floor, sharp, cutting through the hush. She froze for only half a second at the sight — Zoey on the mat, Rumi bent over her, Mira’s phone still trembling in her hand — before crossing the space in strides, her coat flaring behind her.
Her mask was gone. What showed in her eyes was pure urgency. Rumi moved away by instinct.
Celine dropped to her knees beside Zoey, movements sharp and precise. Her hands ghosted over her chest, pressing carefully near the scar, then to her ribs, her breathing, her pulse. Every touch was brisk, clinical—but her eyes betrayed the panic pulsing beneath the surface.
“Her breathing’s shallow,” Celine muttered under her breath, not to them but to herself. She pressed her ear close to Zoey’s mouth, counting the ragged pulls of air, then adjusted her hand under Zoey’s neck to tilt her airway. “You’ve pushed too far.”
Zoey’s eyes fluttered, defiance flickering even as she gasped.
Celine’s jaw tightened. She brushed a damp strand of hair from Zoey’s forehead, fingers lingering just a fraction too long before she straightened. Her face reset into control, mask tightening around the edges—but her knuckles were white against the mat.
She stood, spine rigid. “You two. Out.”
Her voice cut like a blade, leaving no room for argument.
Mira didn’t even glance at Rumi; she just reached for her arm and pulled. Rumi resisted for a breath, her gaze locked on Zoey’s trembling frame—but she let herself be dragged.
They left barefoot, mats cool against their feet, until the studio door thudded shut behind them. The red light of the exit sign washed their skin as they stepped into the hall. They moved in silence, only the echo of their steps on the stairwell carrying them up, higher, until a final door gave way to wind and open air.
The rooftop stretched across the side of the tower, the sky spilling wide above them. Rumi’s chest still heaved faintly with leftover adrenaline; Mira’s hand was still clamped lightly around her wrist, as though she didn’t trust her to stand on her own.
Finally, Mira spoke.
“You look exhausted,” she said, releasing her grip. Her voice was flat but not cold, a kind of tired pragmatism. She studied Rumi’s face, the faint shadows under her eyes. “When was the last time you actually slept?”
Rumi snorted, turning her head away. “That’s your opening line?” Her arms folded across her chest, too defensive to realize the weight in the question. “What do you want me to say? That I’m fine? That you don’t need to worry?”
“I don’t want you to say anything,” Mira replied, voice steady. “I want you to actually take care of yourself. You keep burning like this, and there won’t be anything left.”
Rumi’s jaw clenched. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her pants. “So now I’m… what? A liability?”
Mira exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing, not in anger but in frustration at the twist. “That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you mean,” Rumi snapped, voice cracking despite herself. She turned, finally meeting Mira’s eyes, hurt blazing there. “Admit it. You should’ve left me behind already. Maybe you already have.”
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, like a physical presence between them.
Mira’s mouth opened, a protest or denial forming on her lips, but no sound emerged. She closed it again, the words dying on her tongue.
Every phrase she thought of—every reassurance, every apology—rang hollow, even to her own ears. Each one felt like another knife twisting in Rumi’s chest.
Rumi huffed and spun away, wishing Mira would just say it already.
Anything would be better than this distance, this absence, this silence that screamed louder than words ever could.
Mira saw it in slow motion: Rumi walking away from what was left of their connection, the crack between them widening until she wasn’t sure she could reach her anymore.
She knew she had caused this.
She knew, and she was desperate to fix it.
And in that helplessness, Mira broke her own pattern.
She stepped forward and pulled Rumi into a sudden, fierce hug. Her arms wrapped tight around her shoulders, refusing to let her slip further away, her face pressed into Rumi’s shoulder like it was a shelter in the storm.
Rumi froze, body stiff, caught off guard by the warmth pressed against her. By the foreign heartbeat racing so close to her own.
Mira’s voice was a whisper, low enough that the wind nearly stole it away.
“No, I haven't.
I’m sorry.”
Rumi’s breath hitched, her walls cracking under the weight of it—the apology, the contact, the reminder that maybe she hadn’t been abandoned after all.
She didn’t hug back.
Not yet.
But her fists loosened , and her eyes burned hot against the sky.
Chapter 29: Fallback
Chapter Text
Celine stood, spine rigid.
“You two. Out.”
Her voice cut like a blade, leaving no room for argument.
She didn’t watch them go—only caught, in the corner of her vision, Mira tugging Rumi by the wrist. Neither spoke. The door clicked shut behind them, and silence fell.
Celine turned. Her focus narrowed on Zoey. The girl’s chest rose too fast, too shallow, each breath dragging like a jagged edge.
“Zoey.”
Fingers clawed at the mat beneath her, trying to grab onto something that wasn’t there. Her ribs strained, scar tissue burning with each ragged gasp—pain tangled with panic in her throat.
“Zoey—look at me.” Celine crouched low, palms braced to either side of her. Her voice shifted, steadier, the same tone she’d once used to hold Kim in place when the three bacame two. “With me. In… out.”
Her body refused to obey. Overexertion had ignited a fire in her lungs, and panic fueled it. Her vision blurred, ears rang, and the world tilted. She gasped, mouth wide, but air seemed out of reach.
She jolted once, twice—her body fighting itself, before her eyes rolled back. The frantic rhythm ended in a ragged shudder, her chest heaving once more before her body sagged limp.
“Dammit.”
Celine caught her by the shoulders, turning her onto her side. She bent close, ear almost brushing Zoey’s lips. For a heartbeat she heard nothing—then, faint, a thin wisp of breath warmed her cheek. Unsteady. Weak. But there.
Relief hit so hard her knees would have give if she wasn’t already down. She stayed like that, bent over her, counting each fragile rise and fall until the rhythm smoothed enough that a ghost of color touched Zoey’s lips again.
Only then did she scopped her up, ignoring the fire in her own stitches.
Even the simple press of an elbow to the elevator panel sent pain searing down her side, but she didn’t loosen her grip. Not once.
Not until Zoey was back in her bed, blanket tucked to her chin as though thin fabric could shield her from memory or fear.
Her hand lingered at Zoey’s temple, brushing damp strands of hair aside.
“You reckless—” The words broke, trembling, stripped of anger. She shut her eyes, breathed out through her teeth. “…What were you thinking?”
—————
Zoey lay propped against the pillows, skin pale under the dim window light. Every breath scraped shallow, but a flicker of a grin appeared when Celine tugged the blanket higher.
“You know,” Zoey rasped, “for people who claim they don’t want me dead, they fought like they do.”
Celine’s jaw tightened. “Don’t joke.” She pressed two fingers to Zoey’s wrist, checking her pulse longer than necessary. Her voice was low, clipped. “This isn’t a game. What you pulled downstairs—pushing yourself past collapse—that’s why you’re not stepping foot on a hunt.”
“Celine…” Zoey’s voice thinned, careful. “Please don’t take this from me. If I’m not out there with you—if I can’t fight with them—what am I?”
Celine stilled. Her gaze met Zoey’s. “Alive,” she said simply. “That should be enough.”
Zoey shook her head, sharp despite the ache it sent through her ribs. “Not for me. I’m not asking you to see me as strong. I’m asking you to trust me.”
That landed. Celine’s jaw flexed. Her eyes flicked to the uneven stretch of blanket over the bandages at Zoey’s side. “You’re healing. Not healed.”
“Close enough,” Zoey shot back, rough but steady. “If I can eat my weight in pancakes, I can throw a knife.”
That almost earned a smile—but Celine’s expression smoothed back to steel. “Bravado isn’t readiness. You know that.”
Zoey leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “What I know is—shutting me out doesn’t make the team safer. It makes me desperate. It makes Rumi and Mira look over their shoulders instead of forward.”
Celine paused, gaze sharpening. She folded her arms, posture crisp. “You’re not wrong. Isolation fractures. Resentment festers. I won’t allow that.”
“So… that’s a yes?” Zoey’s fingers twisted the blanket, knuckles pale. “If you tell me to fall back, I will. No argument. No hesitation. You have my word.”
Celine studied her, searching for cracks. “And if leaving means watching us bleed while you turn away?”
Zoey’s eyes glistened, but she held. “Then I’ll carry it. I’ll hate it, I’ll scream after—but I’ll go. Because you asked. Because you trusted me.”
The silence stretched, heavy. Zoey’s chest trembled, but she didn’t look away.
Finally, Celine exhaled, slow through her nose. The rigidity in her shoulders eased. “Then you’ll come,” she said at last. Her tone carried both steel and surrender. “But the moment I say retreat, you run. That’s not a request. It’s an order.”
Relief cracked Zoey’s face, fragile but radiant. She bowed her head like she was taking more than permission—like she was shouldering a vow. “Yes, ma’am.”
For the first time, Celine’s lips curved—faint, unguarded. Her hand brushed Zoey’s hair back from her forehead, gentler than she meant.
“…Not a soldier,” she murmured.
Zoey froze, stunned. Her throat worked, but no words came. Only a blink, fighting the sting in her eyes. Finally, she whispered, “I won’t be dead weight.”
“I wouldn’t take you if I thought you were,” Celine replied evenly. Her gaze softened, just enough to register. “Strength isn’t just endurance. It’s judgment.”
The word lodged in Zoey’s chest. After a breath, softer: “Is that what you meant—when you said there’s a dark side to a bond this strong?”
Celine leaned back in the chair, hands folded too neatly. “Partially. Not all.”
Zoey frowned. “You make it sound like a warning.”
“It is.” Celine’s tone was flat, almost clinical. “A deep bond isn’t only support. It’s scaffolding. Remove one beam, the structure shakes.”
Zoey’s fingers curled. “You mean me.”
Celine didn’t blink. “I mean the hole you left. And what it did to them.”
Zoey’s breath caught. “They kept moving. I saw them—”
“They survived,” Celine cut in, sharp but not cruel. “That’s different.”
Zoey’s eyes narrowed. “Explain it to me. Don’t just give me riddles.”
Celine’s gaze lingered on her, then she sighed. “Rumi lost her center. She unraveled into guilt and fear—lost control. That part of her took over for hours. We couldn’t take her to see you in that state.”
Her eyes flicked aside, finding refuge in the notebook on Zoey’s desk before setting it down again. “Mira told me she snapped when you went down. We weren’t sure she wouldn’t take half the hospital apart if you didn’t make it.”
Celine drew a long breath. “Mira carried more than she should have. Tried to be strong for both of you. But this wasn’t something she could hit, and that ate her alive. She funneled everything into focusing on you, because if she cracked, Rumi would shatter. It built like a bomb waiting for someone to light the fuse.”
Zoey swallowed hard. “They’ve always been different. But they fit. Like gears.”
“Until you were gone,” Celine said simply. “Then the gears ground. Sparks, no motion.”
Zoey shook her head, guilt twisting. “But they still had you.”
“I kept them alive,” Celine corrected, clipped. “Alive isn’t whole. They carried your ghost between them. Every word turned sharp, like they couldn’t help but jab at each other."
Zoey’s lips parted, but no words came. She let the silence breathe for a moment before whispering, “They wouldn't... when?—How?" She swallowed hard.
Her voice lowered. “Your first night in the hospital—I sent them home. Tension was already high. The next day, Mira was… colder. Mechanical. I mentioned Rumi once, and she snapped. But the look in her eyes...like she was about to— ”
Zoey pressed her nails into her palms. “And Rumi?”
“She looked at Mira like she had betrayed her.” Celine’s eyes dimmed. “They passed each other like strangers. The tension underneath was thick.”
Zoey’s jaw trembled. “I broke them.”
“No.” Celine’s reply cut sharp. “The bond did. It wasn’t weakness. It was strength collapsing inward. They cared for you so fiercely that when you fell, they fractured. Being close only tore them wider.”
Zoey blinked against the sting in her eyes. “So what are we now? Shattered pieces taped together?”
Celine hesitated, then: “You’re here. That means the fracture can mend. But scars remain. And if it tears again—”
She didn’t finish.
Zoey leaned back, chest tight. “That’s why you don’t want me out there. You’re not afraid of me getting hurt. You’re afraid of what it does to them.”
Celine looked at her fully now, steady and unwavering. “I’m afraid of what it does to all of you. To the bond. To everything we’ve built. You think I protect you because I doubt your strength. The truth is, I doubt they could survive losing you again.”
Zoey’s voice cracked, darkened. “And what if keeping me behind makes us lose each other anyway?”
For once, Celine had no answer.
Zoey saw it. Somehow, the hesitation fed her resolve. She smirked, voice rough but lighter. “Guess I better not screw it up.”
Celine rose smoothly, brushing invisible dust from her slacks. “Better not. They need you whole, Zoey—not half-alive. Remember that.”
A raspy laugh slipped from Zoey. “Whole. Got it. I’ll work on it.”
Celine’s lips twitched, almost a snort. She turned toward the hall. “Do more than work on it. Prove it.”
Zoey watched her go, warmth threading through the ache in her ribs. For all the warnings, for all the conditions, one truth settled: Celine hadn’t shut her out. She’d cracked the door open. Enough for Zoey to step through—if she was strong enough to hold steady.
—————
Celine stood in the hallway, spine straight, hands folded in front of her holding a basket like she was waiting for inspection. But no one was here to judge her posture. The stillness pressed in anyway.
Her eyes lost in the zipper of the first-aid kit that sat half open, her thumb dragging along it without thought.
She had cleaned wounds that didn’t need cleaning. Put bandages on scratches she would have ignored on anyone else. She never wasted time on surface cuts. If it wasn’t serious, they were meant to handle it themselves. That was how she kept them strong. Or so she told herself.
And yet—when Zoey collapsed in the studio, all that doctrine had vanished, her own body had betrayed her. Heart stopped, breath caught—just like the day everything first fell apart.
Control had always been her armor, but that moment had stripped it clean away. She remembered pressing close, counting the faint rush of air against her cheek, whispering sharp curses so no one would hear the crack in her voice.
And then Zoey had jolted back. Not with fear. Not with pain. With fire. Words raw but certain, demanding another chance. That terrified Celine more than silence ever could.
Zoey’s words lingered, sharper than she expected. Trust me. They had cut deeper than any protest, deeper than the bravado. And Celine had bent—more than she meant to.
She told herself it was strategy: keeping the team intact, balancing the fractures she had already seen spreading through Mira and Rumi. But in the quiet, she could admit it wasn’t just that. Zoey had looked at her without flinching, without fear, and Celine had felt the smallest slip in her own armor.
She hated it. And yet… she didn’t.
Her steps carried her down the hall, heels tapping a measured rhythm that steadied her thoughts.
She replayed the memory of Rumi’s golden-rimmed eyes, of Mira’s voice breaking when she thought no one heard. They weren’t steady—not yet. Zoey was right about that. They needed each other, like limbs on the same body. And if one limb was cut off, the rest bled out trying to replace it.
Celine had seen it before. Different faces, different names, but the same collapse.
Yet when Zoey asked, what am I, if not fighting beside them?—Celine found herself without a clean answer. Alive should have been enough. It wasn’t. Not for Zoey, not for Rumi or Mira, and maybe… not even for herself.
Celine stopped at the end of the corridor, resting her hand against the cool wall. She let herself breathe, slow and even, until the ache behind her ribs dulled. Then she set her jaw.
She had given Zoey permission—but it was a fragile thing. A line drawn thin, one she would enforce without hesitation if Zoey faltered.
And yet, as much as she bristled at it, she knew: when Zoey walked onto the field again, the balance would shift. Maybe for better, maybe for worse.
Celine’s eyes closed briefly. Scaffolding, she had called it. What she hadn’t said aloud was the rest of the thought.
She straightened, smoothing her blouse, shoulders square, basket firmly pressed against her side.
Whatever doubts lingered, she would bury them until they were useful.
For now, she would watch.
And if Zoey stumbled, if Rumi cracked, if Mira burned herself hollow—Celine would be ready.
Because someone had to be.
Chapter 30: Catharsis
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Mira saw it—Rumi giving up on what was left of their connection.
And in that helplessness, she stepped forward, pulling her into a sudden, fierce hug.
Her arms wrapped tight around Rumi’s shoulders, her face pressed into the crook of her neck.
“No, I haven’t,” she whispered. Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”
Rumi didn’t hug back. Her fists just hovered uselessly at her sides, then slowly loosened.
And Mira waited.
She waited for a heartbeat, just listening to her breathing.
She waited a couple seconds, feeling the warmth between them.
She waited a minute, letting the familiar smell remind her how many times a hug like this had meant the world.
She waited for what felt like forever, realizing the silence was so loud it rang in her ears.
She held tighter, hoping it wasn’t too late.
Hoping for a hug back that—she had only just realized—wasn’t coming.
Her body started to shake.
She cursed herself for being how she was.
Because she didn’t know how to hold on without pushing.
Didn’t know how to ask without cornering.
Didn’t know how to help without hurting.
She’d always been the one who acted. Who fixed things. But this—this wasn’t something she knew how to fix.
She waited for the moment Rumi would pull away, and the bond they once had would scatter into pieces too small to gather.
Her tears burned, trapped painfully in her eyes, as Rumi’s stillness and silence broke her apart.
Mira’s mouth opened once. Twice. Three times. No words came.
"Mira..." Rumi's voice was barely audible.
Finally, she leaned back just enough to find her face.
And there it was—an unreadable expression, eyes fixed on the sky, as though Mira wasn’t even standing there.
She swallowed hard. Forced herself to catch a breath her body seemed to reject and with a quiet, raw voice beseeched. “Please, Rumi. Don’t shut me out.”
The warmth of Mira’s arms, the way her voice cracked—it should have been everything she wanted. And that was exactly what made Rumi’s chest seize. If she gave in, if she let herself believe this was real, she wasn’t sure she’d survive losing it again.
Worse, it wasn’t Mira being unshakable this time.
It was Mira clinging to her, trembling against her shoulder. The roles had flipped, and Rumi’s body didn’t know how to move. She didn’t know how to hold Mira when she could barely hold herself.
So she froze. Still. Silent. Afraid that leaning in would make her need too obvious, and afraid that not leaning in would break them for good.
Rumi finally looked down. Her voice shaking, red glazzy eyes “You… you don’t even look at me the same anymore. Like I’m some… problem to solve. And I hate it. I hate that I need you to keep looking anyway.”
Mira didn’t defend herself. She stepped back, her hands falling uselessly to her sides. Her shoulders trembled, she struggled finding words, and when she spoke, her voice wasn’t sharp but unsteady, raw.
“You’re not some puzzle I’m trying to fix. You’re the person I— I don’t know how to do this without you.”
It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t control. It was her deepest fear spilling out—naked dependency with no armor, no mask. Mira stood stripped down to her heart, praying Rumi wouldn’t crush it.
Rumi blinked, stunned. Of all the answers she had braced for, this wasn’t one. The heat in her chest thinned, anger faltering into something hollow. Her voice slipped out soft, uneven.
“You… you still trust me? After everything? After Zoey?”
Her words cut jagged, carrying contradiction—half hope that Mira still trusted her, half dread that she did. Blame was safer; it matched the way Rumi already damned herself.
Mira’s gaze dropped. Her chin dipped toward her chest, shame rippling across her face.
“I trusted you,” she said, voice catching. “And Zoey got hurt. And I’ll never forgive myself for listening—for not protecting her better.”
Her hands clenched at her sides, then slowly unfurled, as if letting go of air she’d held too long. Finally, she forced herself to look up, eyes locking onto Rumi’s.
“But—” her throat tightened, “—I never stopped trusting you. I just… stopped trusting myself.”
She’d known it in the quiet corners of her mind for a while, but voicing it made it real. The weight of guilt didn’t just belong to Rumi—it sat heavy on her too.
“I hate myself for what happened too" Rumi whispered. Relief peaked behind the tremor in her voice.
Her voice cracked as she finally gathered enough courage to look at Rumi. “I’m scared of losing you. Both of you. I’m scared of failing. And I don’t know how much more I can carry.”
Rumi’s throat burned as the truth sank in—Mira hadn’t been unshakable, not really. The steadiness, the smirks, the sharp edges she wore like armor… it was a mask. A mask she’d held up for Rumi’s sake. Just like they both had done for Zoey.
Tears stung behind her eyes. How hadn’t she seen it? How could she have stood beside Mira this long and missed the weight pressing on her shoulders?
Her voice cracked as the words forced their way out. “You’re not supposed to be carrying this alone, Mira. You never were. If you fall, I’ll be right there to catch you…” She swallowed hard, her body trembling, “…even if I’m shaking too.”
Mira exhaled a shaky laugh, the relief rough in her throat. “Please. I already followed you against the demon king himself—no need to keep sweet-talking me.”
" Followed me..." Rumi’s hands lifted, covering her face. Her shoulders caved inward as her words broke through her fingers. “You don’t get it—I was never strong enough—good enough—I’ve been pretending, and you keep carrying me like dead weight.”
Her voice cracked. She shook her head hard, as though the admission itself burned. Her paterns pulsated.
“Maybe you should lead. Maybe you should’ve all along.”
Mira moved before Rumi could sink deeper. She caught her wrists, gentle but unyielding, pulling her hands down until their eyes were caught—no room to hide.
“I don’t want to lead,” she whispered, her voice shaking but steadying as it went. “I never did. I don’t want to carry you, Rumi. I want to stand with you. Wherever you take me.”
The words wavered, but the truth in them held like steel. For the first time, the bond they’d been circling for so long finally took shape—not one above the other, but side by side. Equals, even in the wreckage.
Rumi blinked hard, jaw tightening as her eyes welled. “I feel broken. Useless. Watching you step in makes me hate myself—but also…” she exhaled shakily, “…I’m relieved. Because you were there when I couldn’t be. When I was too afraid of becoming a monster, or too weak to be anything else.”
The pink-haired's jaw tightened, then loosened as she forced the truth out.
“Watching you fall apart and not moving felt impossible. I thought acting was better than just standing as you broke.”
Her eyes dropped, then rose again, searching. “When you kept stepping in… especially with Celine… I felt abandoned. Pitied. Replaced. I thought you didn’t need me anymore.”
Mira’s chest ached at that, her eyes flickering down and back up again. “I thought I was helping you by stepping up. I didn’t realize I made you feel replaced. Not at the beginning. But then we kept clashing, and I—”
Her voice caught, unfinished, heavy with everything she hadn’t known how to say until now.
"If it made you feel pitied or pushed aside… then I was wrong. I don’t want to fight beside a shadow of you. I want you, even if you’re messy, even if you’re scared."
Rumi leaned forward, pressing her forehead hard into Mira’s shoulder. Mira’s arms came around her—not careful, not cradling something fragile, but holding someone of equal weight. Someone she refused to let go.
Mira’s throat tightened, she felt the slow trace of tears moving down her cheeks. Not fiercely, not dramatic. Just the weight of her emotions finally leaking through.
“I don’t know how to fix us,” Rumi whispered into Mira’s shirt, her breath hitching against the fabric. If she noticed Mira's sobs she didn’t mentioned it.
“Then don’t,” Mira murmured back, voice quiet but edged with fire. She held her tighter, unwilling to let go.
“Just let me stay. That’s enough.”
So they stayed. Neither spoke, neither moved. The tremors running through them ebbed slowly, like aftershocks fading into silence. Breath by breath, the shaking dulled, steadied, until the storm inside their bodies finally loosened its grip.
When Rumi pulled away at last, it wasn’t far—just enough to shift, to slide toward the edge of the building. She sat sideways, knees hugged close to her chest, chin tucked down.
The city sprawled beneath them, but her gaze lifted higher, caught by the sun breaking through the mist. She tilted her head back, letting the warmth spill over her skin. Her patterns shimmered in the light, refracting into prismatic colors that rippled like living glass.
For a moment, Mira could only watch. The sight hit her in the chest, sharp and quiet—Rumi bathed in light after so many nights of shadow. Awe tugged her forward before she realized it, until she lowered herself down beside her. Back-to-back, one knee bent, the other stretched out, she matched Rumi’s posture without thinking.
They sat like that, pressed together, sharing balance and silence. The sun wrapped them both, gentle and relentless. They hadn’t felt light like this in months.
Mira swallowed, forcing her throat to work. “Back then… I almost gave up on you. I nearly turned on you with the same weapons we used to guard each other’s backs. And I can’t stop carrying that guilt.” She hesitated, then the words cracked smaller. “I’m sorry.”
Rumi’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering beneath. “Why say sorry now, when before you said sorry wasn’t enough?”
“Because back then,” Mira said, her voice low “I thought I could hold it all together without saying it. Thought I had to be stronger than words. But I’m tired, Rumi. I don’t know what else to give you. I only know I don’t want to lose you… so if all I have left is sorry—then it’s yours.”
Rumi’s mouth twitched into a soft smile, but her eyes stayed sharp. “Don’t. You don’t even see it, do you? Every time you stayed. Every time you held me when I couldn’t hold myself… you already gave me more than enough. So now—"
She leaned in slightly, voice cutting through the warmth, “—if all you’ve got left is sorry, then stop acting like it’s worthless. Own it. Because to me, it’s enough.”
Silence held between them, but softer this time, less like a wound and more like a bandage finally settling into place. Mira let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Then, faintly, she smirked.
“I forgot how much of a pain your scoldings are,” she murmured, nudging her shoulder against Rumi’s.
Rumi snorted, the sound quick and unguarded. “Scoldings? Please. That was encouragement. If I wanted to scold you, you’d be crying already.”
Mira huffed, half laugh, half protest. “Oh, that’s rich. You act like I’m the dramatic one, but you’ve practically written a novel in sighs and eyebrow raises since we got up here.”
Rumi tilted her head, pretending to think. “Mm. True. But someone’s got to make up for your complete lack of subtlety.”
That cracked Mira, a laugh slipping free before she could stop it—quiet at first, then loosening into something warmer. Rumi’s own laughter followed, softer, shorter, but no less real. It felt strange, almost fragile, to laugh like this.
They eased back into silence, but it was a different kind of silence—lighter, easier. Both of them staring outward, but acutely aware of the warmth of the other at their side.
And in the space between laughter and quiet, Mira realized how much she’d craved this—Rumi’s voice sparring against hers, the weight of her presence pressing steady against her back, even the small irritations that came threaded with care.
Rumi felt it too, though she didn’t say it out loud. The laughter left a trace of brightness lingering in her chest, the kind she hadn’t let herself feel in far too long.
For a moment, under the fragile morning sun, it was enough.
Notes:
If you heart didn't ache in the first 30 seconds of this I will remove the angst tag.
Chapter 31: Pending conversations part 2
Summary:
Fragments of conversations from the next couple days.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Rumi knocked lightly on the door, knuckles barely making a sound against the wood.
“Come in,” Zoey called, her voice muffled through music playing low from her phone.
When Rumi stepped inside, Zoey glanced up from where she sat cross-legged on the bed. Her eyes immediately caught the difference—Rumi’s demon patterns weren’t glowing, her skin dim and human-plain.
A grin spread across Zoey’s face. “Wow. Did leaving me unconscious on the mat improve your mood that much?”
Rumi’s lips twitched, but her answer was quiet. “Or maybe you knocked them out of me with those two clean hits you gave me.”
Zoey barked a laugh, throwing her head back. “Fair enough!”
But when she looked back, Rumi wasn’t laughing. Her expression was troubled, eyes shadowed by something heavier than banter.
“What’s wrong?” Zoey asked, her smile fading.
Rumi hesitated, then finally said, “Did I… do something wrong?”
Zoey frowned. “What? No.”
Rumi shifted, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “I couldn’t help but feel like you were after me today. Like you weren’t sparring—you were… aiming at me.”
Zoey sat up straighter, blinking. Then she let out a huff, shaking her head. “Rumi. If you ever piss me off, I’d let you know before I knocked you down.” She smirked. “I’d still knock you down, though.”
A small, soft laugh escaped Rumi, breaking through her tension for a heartbeat.
Zoey’s smile gentled, her voice dropping lower. “You’re strong, Rumi. I just wanted to show both of you I could take you down.” She paused, chewing her lip, then admitted more vulnerably, “I needed to prove I’m not just dead weight anymore.”
Rumi opened her mouth, but Zoey cut herself off, covering the moment with bravado. “Besides, Mira was just lucky you stopped me.”
That pulled a real laugh from Rumi, quiet but genuine. “You’re chaotic. A troublemaker.”
Zoey grinned wide, proud of the title. “Damn right.”
But then her face sobered. She tilted her head, studying Rumi carefully. “Were you… letting Mira hit you?” The concern slipped through despite her attempt to keep it casual.
Rumi’s eyes flicked away immediately, darting toward the wall.
----
Rumi’s gaze was fixed on the wall, though not really seeing it. Her thoughts drifted, heavy and tangled, words she hadn’t said circling uselessly in her head.
Next to her, Zoey filled the silence without even noticing. “So I was thinking,” she said, waving her hands for emphasis, “we should totally get Ria a bouncing house. Like a big one. Rainbow colors, maybe even with a slide. Imagine her face when she sees it—boom! Instant best day ever.”
Rumi blinked slowly, dragged back to the present by Zoey’s unshakable enthusiasm. Her lips twitched, the faintest smile threatening.
Then, without warning, the wall in front of them shimmered. Blue light spread in thin cracks like lightning, widening into a portal that pulsed with otherworldly energy.
Zoey gasped, already halfway to her feet.
The tiger stepped out, massive and steady, its striped fur catching the glow of the portal. Its presence filled the room like a living storm.
Rumi’s chest eased in a way she couldn’t explain. A small, unguarded smile curved her lips.
Zoey’s grin was wider, brighter, pure excitement spilling out of her.
Just as the portal began to close, a bird darted through, wings beating in a sharp burst before it landed gracefully on the tiger’s head.
“I call dibs on the kitty!” Zoey announced, pointing triumphantly.
Rumi blinked at her, incredulous. “What? You can’t call dibs on them.”
“Already did!” Zoey shot back, and before Rumi could stop her, she sprinted toward the tiger.
Rumi snorted, rolling her eyes, but the fondness was unmistakable. “Maknae,” she muttered under her breath, watching Zoey throw herself headfirst into the moment.
Zoey leaned in close to the tiger’s massive face, so close her smirk reflected in his wide golden eyes.
----
Zoey's smirk reflected from the mirrors, all three of them.
“By the way,” she started casually, “Celine was super impressed with how I kicked both of your asses yesterday.”
Rumi, who had been leaning against the barre, tilted her head and let the faintest smile tug at her lips. Her patterns decorated her entire body with prismatic colors.
Mira, stretching on the floor, raised an eyebrow without looking up. “Hm. I must be remembering a different day, because I don’t recall being the one who needed help getting up from the mat.”
Zoey’s mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?” She jabbed a finger in Mira’s direction. “That sweep was illegal. And you know it.”
“Illegal?” Mira finally looked up, eyes glinting. “You mean effective?”
Rumi’s laugh slipped out before she could stop it—quick and warm. The sound made Zoey’s indignation deepen, her hands flying dramatically to her hips.
“Unbelievable,” Zoey muttered, glaring between them. “You two are conspiring against me. Again.”
“We don’t conspire,” Mira said evenly, pushing herself to her feet. She brushed her bangs back with practiced precision. “We just… observe.”
Zoey’s glare only sharpened. “And judge, apparently.”
“Only when it’s funny,” Rumi added, the corners of her mouth twitching. Then she straightened, softer now. “We’re glad to have you back. Just pace yourself, okay?”
The air shifted. Zoey’s grin wavered, her chest tightening at the weight behind Rumi’s words.
“No need to leave the rest of us without anything to do,” Rumi finished, teasing on the surface, but her eyes carried something steadier. Something pleading.
Zoey swallowed, throat tight. She looked between them—their stances so different but both solid, both grounded. And she felt the itch in her veins: the need to prove she belonged there too.
“You don’t get it,” Zoey said, voice cracking between bravado and truth. “I can’t just sit on the sidelines anymore. I’m not built for it. Every time you walk out there without me, it feels like I’m being… left behind. Like I’m not even part of us anymore.”
Mira’s sharpness softened a fraction. She stepped closer, expression caught between warning and understanding. “Zoey—”
“No, listen.” Zoey’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “I’m back. I mean it this time. I don’t care if I’m slower, or if I stumble, or if I have to fight from a distance. That’s final.”
Rumi traded a glance with Mira, searching. The silence stretched for a moment, filled with Zoey’s heavy breaths.
Finally, Mira exhaled, crossing her arms. “You think we don’t want you there?”
Zoey blinked. “What?”
“If you think we’ve been leaving you out because we wanted to,” Mira said, her voice low, “you’re wrong..”
Rumi nodded, her voice gentler. “You scared us, Zo. But we couldn’t be happier to have back. That’s why I’m asking you to pace yourself.”
Zoey’s indignation softened into something shakier. Her lips pressed together, shoulders rising as if she wanted to argue—but the fight had gone out of her.
“I can’t promise I won’t scare you again,” she admitted quietly. “But I can promise I won’t be reckless.”
The words landed heavy. Mira’s jaw tightened.
For a moment, none of them spoke. Then Mira stepped forward, close enough that Zoey felt the heat of her presence. “Fine. But if you’re with us, you follow the rhythm. You trust me and Rumi to cover your blind spots. No more solo heroics.”
Zoey smirked, a little shaky but real. Her hand slipped in her pocket pulling a small bag out. “So… coordinated chaos. Got it.”
Rumi’s smile returned, softer this time. “That’s us.”
Zoey rolled her shoulders, energy sparking again. “Good. Because I’ve been dying to prove I’m the best out of the three of us.”
Mira groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You lasted exactly ten seconds before turning this into a competition.”
“And I’ll win,” Zoey shot back, grinning.
Rumi laughed again, her shoulders easing. “Fine. Just don’t make me carry your ass back to the penthouse this time.”
Zoey’s grin widened. “No promises.” She threw the last gummy into her mouth, and shove the empty bag in her pocket.
‐------
“I promise this will be the best ramyeon,” Zoey’s voice rang from the kitchen, punctuated by the clang of a pot lid. “This TikTok recipe is going viral!”
Mira glanced up from the phone in her hand, one brow raised. “That’s either the best endorsement or the worst warning.”
Rumi huffed a tired laugh beside her on the couch. The video playing on Mira’s phone droned softly, subtitles chasing across the screen. Neither of them was really paying attention.
Mira smirked and tilted the screen toward Rumi. “Smart of Celine to schedule a dinner tonight. Didn’t even have to pretend to like Zoey’s experiments.”
Rumi chuckled under her breath, but the sound faded quickly. Mira caught the way her head dipped, her body sagging heavier into the cushions.
“Hey,” Mira murmured, shifting. She moved closer, close enough that when Rumi blinked slowly, her head tipped into the curve of Mira’s shoulder like it had been waiting for the invitation.
“Sorry,” Rumi mumbled, her voice slurred by the weight of sleep. “I’m just tired.”
“You look exhausted,” Mira said softly, glancing down at her. The words weren’t a tease this time—just an observation.
Rumi’s lashes fluttered as she fought to keep her eyes open. “It’s hard to sleep.” Her voice was low, fragile. She hesitated, then let the truth slip. “Too many… nightmares.”
Mira’s chest tightened, something protective rising in her throat. She shifted her arm and wrapped it gently around Rumi’s shoulders, pulling her closer.
"I’ll wake you up when food’s ready.”she whispered, voice low enough that Zoey’s clattering in the kitchen couldn’t drown it out.
Rumi let out a shaky breath, the tension in her frame easing bit by bit.
------
Rumi let out a shaky breath as the last note of her verse faded into the quiet room. The sound lingered, caught between the walls like it didn’t want to leave her. Her shoulders slumped, drained from the effort, though her patterns flickered faintly in rhythm with her heartbeat.
Celine stood a few feet away, arms crossed, her expression sharp, almost clinical. She studied Rumi with the precision of a judge at a competition.
Then, slowly, she stepped forward. One hand lifted, brushing against Rumi’s arm before settling firmly on her shoulder. She adjusted her posture with a light press—straightening her back, angling her chin. The touch was careful, controlled.
Her eyes softened, the hard line of her mouth easing. “Couldn’t have done it better myself.”
Rumi’s breath caught, her chest tightening. Celine’s hand lingered longer than it needed to, steady on her shoulder.
“Your voice could kill, Rumi,” Zoey added, her gaze fixed on her like she was seeing something rare. Her lips curved, delighted. “At least—I feel like I just heard an angel.”
Rumi smiled, Zoey's words filled her chest with warmth and yet her eyes stayed on Celine.
Before the silence stretched too far, Zoey practically bounced forward, unable to hold it in. “My turn!”
Her grin was wide, her energy restless, like Rumi’s voice had lit something inside her she couldn’t contain.
She inhaled deeply, bracing herself.
But Celine was already moving, circling to her side, fingertips adjusting her elbow, nudging her chin upward before a single note could leave her mouth.
Zoey’s eyes darted sideways, startled by the touch. “I didn’t even start yet—”
-----
“I didn’t even start yet…” Zoey muttered to herself, one arm flung across her eyes as she lay flat on the bed. She knew it, though—sleep wasn’t coming. Not tonight.
Her body ached for rest, but her mind spun in circles too tight to escape. The worries piled one after another like dominoes she couldn’t stop from toppling. What if I can’t keep up with the choreography? What if my voice cracks on stage? What if next time we fight, I freeze? What if I’m not enough—for them, for me?
The silence pressed in. She held her breath, waiting, hoping exhaustion might drag her under. It didn’t.
With a sharp exhale, she gave up. In one fluid roll, she pushed herself out of bed, bare feet hitting the floorboards. She flicked on the lamp at her desk, the warm glow pushing back the shadows just enough to make her feel less small.
Her hand reached automatically for the half-crushed bag of gummy worms, comfort in neon sugar. She tore it open, mouth dry, chest heavy.
One gummy landed on her tongue. She didn’t chew. She let it dissolve slow against the roof of her mouth, the tang of sugar and artificial fruit sticking to her lips as she pulled her notebook closer.
The pencil was already in her hand, almost before she realized. The words spilled out, uneven and desperate, handwriting jagged from the weight in her chest. Line after line. Page after page.
Her jaw tightened. She sucked harder on the gummy, refusing the satisfaction of chewing, like denying herself control was somehow discipline.
The sugar burned faintly against her tongue. The words burned louder against the page.
Her hand cramped. Still, she didn’t stop. Flipping to a new sheet, scribbling, pressing harder until the lead threatened to tear through.
She didn’t notice the exact moment her body began to drift—the way her head drooped, the pencil still clutched between her fingers, notebook sprawled under her arm.
The lamp glowed steady, sugar clung to her lips, the unfinished lines swam in half-legible shapes.
And Zoey knew—before her eyes fully shut, before sleep dragged her under—nightmares were waiting.
I’d tell them if I was falling apart… right?
Notes:
You know the drill.
We resume heavily next chapter.
Chapter 32: Sugar rush
Chapter Text
Darkness pressed down like a heavy blanket. Her chest was tight, and she knew she was dreaming—but that didn’t make it easier to breathe.
The hallway stretched out in both directions, lockers lining the walls. A familiar smell—cheap disinfectant and sweat—burned her nose. High school. She was back there.
Her sneakers squeaked against the linoleum. She glanced down. Her old skate shoes, scuffed and peeling at the sides. The same ones she wore every day until the soles thinned.
A voice echoed. Laughter—sharp, cutting. It prickled at the back of her neck before she even saw them.
“Hey, freak.” The word bounced off the metal doors. She didn’t turn, didn’t need to. She knew the voices.
Her hands clenched around the straps of her backpack. Inside: notebooks with lyrics scribbled between math problems, doodles hidden in the margins. Her escape. Her proof that she was more than this place.
A shove. Her shoulder slammed into the locker. She staggered, pain shooting down her arm. The laughter got louder.
“What’s with the hair? You think you’re in a K-drama or something?” Fingers yanked at her ponytail, jerking her head back.
She bit down on her lip hard enough to taste blood. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Her bag hit the floor, zipper half-open. The notebooks spilled out, pages fluttering. She lunged for them, but a sneaker stomped down, smearing dirt across her handwriting.
“Oops.” The voice was mocking. “Guess it wasn’t important.”
Another hand grabbed her pocket, tugging. Her lunch money, gone. She didn’t even try to stop them anymore.
She already knew. That’s why she carried the Ziploc bag.
She fumbled into her backpack, pulling out the small bag of gummy worms. Her lifeline. Her insurance against hunger.
“What’s that? Ew.” A hand snatched it away before she could even open it. The bag tore. The worms scattered across the floor like neon roadkill.
The red and yellow ones were crushed under sneakers. The blue and pink ones were thrown at her head, bouncing off her cheek.
Someone picked up an orange and green one, sneered, and shoved it into her mouth. “Eat it, freak. Isn’t this your dinner?”
She gagged, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. She hated the orange and green ones. Hated them.
But she chewed. Because hunger was worse.
“See? She likes it!” More laughter.
Her chest caved in. She curled tighter around herself, wishing she could disappear into the lockers, slip between the cracks of the floor.
The fire alarm beeped. A small red light flicked at the edge of her vision. Her hands shook.
If she pulled it, teachers would come. But then her parents would find out. And she’d get grounded. And grounded meant no skateboarding, no music. No escape.
If she didn’t…
Hands shoved her head down, pressing her face toward the dirty tile. Her breath caught. She remembered the toilet. The sour smell of disinfectant and piss.
The cold water filling her nose as they dunked her head again and again. The panic of lungs begging for air.
She flailed, desperate, the world blurring with water and humiliation.
And then—the crack. Her skateboard. Her only gift to herself, snapped in half like a twig. They threw the pieces into the fire.
The flames swallowed it, the smell of burning wood and polyurethane filling her nose. She reached out, but the heat never came. She couldn’t even feel it.
Just the sound of crackling. Just the smell.
Her throat ached from screaming, but no sound came out. The firelight flickered against their grins.
“You thought you could skate away from us? Pathetic.”
A locker door slammed. She was shoved inside, knees scraping the metal, notebooks stuffed in with her. The door clanged shut. Darkness swallowed her whole.
She clawed at the small vents, fingers raw, but no one listened. The only sound was their laughter fading down the hall.
She pulled her knees to her chest, pressing her face against the ripped pages of her notebook. Lyrics smeared with her tears.
“...one more verse,” she whispered to herself. “Just one more.” Her voice broke.
But the words didn’t come. Only silence. Only the taste of orange gummy worm lingering bitter on her tongue.
Her stomach cramped with hunger, her throat dry, but she forced the last green gummy worm into her mouth. The one she hated most.
The taste turned to ash.
Zoey woke with her cheek pressed to the desk, the glow of her laptop still humming faintly. Her neck ached. A nightmare clung to her like damp clothes—fire, metal, silence. She pushed it away with a groggy hand, reaching automatically for the bag of gummy worms she’d left by the keyboard.
She sat upright, shaking. The penthouse was quiet. Safe. But her chest didn’t believe it.
“It’s over. It’s over,” she whispered, but the words felt hollow.
Because part of her still believed she was back there. Locked in. Starving. Chewing through green and orange sugar just to make it through the day.
And the worst part—the part that always broke her—was knowing no one cared. Not then. Not until years later.
Tears slid down her cheeks. For a second, she almost wished Mira or Rumi would walk in. But another part of her—the part still hiding in lockers—begged them not to.
Because if they saw her like this…
maybe they’d laugh too.
Her fingers scraped the bottom. Only orange and green left.
The knot in her stomach twisted tighter. She pushed back her chair, stood, and shuffled toward the kitchen.
Rumi and Mira were already there, mugs in hand, voices low enough that Zoey knew she hadn’t been meant to hear. Both looked up when she entered.
“Morning,” Mira said, neutral.
“Morning,” Zoey echoed, automatic.
Rumi’s smile was small but warm. “Good that you’re up. We were just talking about Bobby’s message—”
“Mm.” Zoey opened a cupboard, then another. The search gave her something to do with her hands.
“He wants to know how we feel about the meet and greet,” Mira added.
Drawer, shelf, countertop—nothing. The words skimmed past Zoey’s ears. Her chest felt too tight, her movements jerky. She turned, catching them both watching her.
“Where are the gummy worms?”
“You took the last bag to your room,” Rumi said gently, brows raised. “If you’re hungry, I can make you breakfast.”
“She’s addicted to sugar,” Mira teased, a palm resting on Rumi’s shoulder to hold her in place.
Zoey gave a thin laugh—practiced. She didn’t explain. Didn’t say that the blue worms were her proof that she was still here, still herself, still holding on.
“There’s other candy, but Zoey—about the event—” Rumi tried again.
Zoey wanted to care. She really did. But the effort to listen tangled with the effort not to shake, and she couldn’t manage both. Mira’s voice kept going—something about keeping it short, maybe just the interview.
Zoey pressed her palms flat to the counter. Forced sound out. “Yeah. That sounds… great.”
“Which one?” Rumi asked, careful.
Zoey froze. She didn’t know what she’d just agreed to. Her answer came sharper than she meant: “Just whatever you two decide. That’s what you usually do anyway.”
Silence. Heavy. Mira’s brow arched, the faintest smirk ghosting her lips. Rumi’s mouth opened, then shut again.
“I’ll be back,” Zoey muttered. She bolted down the hall, shut her door hard. Her hands shook as she tore through her jacket pockets until finally—finally—her fingers found a Ziploc bag with a single gummy worm inside.
Blue and red.
Relief broke over her like air after drowning. She sank onto the bed, shallow breaths still ragged, and slipped it past her lips. Sweetness bloomed on her tongue, sharp and tangy. The knot in her stomach loosened just enough for her to breathe.
Even years later, she never shook the habit of keeping gummy worms tucked close. Hoodie pocket, bag, sometimes under her pillow. To others, it looked childish. To her, it was ritual. Proof she’d never go hungry the way she had back then.
Back in high school, gummy worms were all she could count on. Lunch money gone before first bell. Food trays overturned. Bag lunches ruined. But the Ziploc in her pocket? That was hers. Blue and red became lifelines—small mercies rationed bite by bite, each chew whispering: You’re still here. You’re still fighting.
The orange and green ones tasted like defeat, reminders of scraping bottom. But the blue and red? Those were rebellion. Every bite said: You didn’t take everything. I still have this.
And even now—nightmares clawing her awake, stomach twisted, hands trembling—a single blue worm was enough to remind her: I made it through before. I can make it through again.
Notes:
This lived in my drafts since the beginning and I am so happy its finally time to dive into it!!!
I needed some balance. Read if you do to.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/69003586/chapters/182552631
Chapter 33: Countdown
Summary:
Beautiful chapter, tense, dramatic ... and they were just drinking coffee.
Chapter Text
The slam of Zoey’s door echoed down the hall.
Not loud, not violent—just a flat thud that vibrated in the drywall, lingering like a bruise.
And in the silence that followed, it rang sharp enough to split the kitchen in two.
Mira leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. Her mug, still warm in her palm, suddenly felt like dead weight. The steam kissed her face, bitter with coffee she didn’t even want anymore.
Across from her, Rumi shifted her weight from one foot to the other, bare toes curling against the tile. One hand still held a plate, the other one's fingers picked at the hem of her oversized shirt, tugging, twisting—anxious tells Mira knew better than to point out.
Rumi’s gaze stayed fixed on the dark hallway where Zoey had vanished.
The silence pressed, thick as humidity, clinging to their skin.
“...That went well,” Mira said, voice dry enough to cut.
It wasn’t really a joke, but the words cracked the tension just enough to breathe.
Rumi set the plate down with too much care, as if the porcelain might shatter from the weight of the moment alone. Her voice came quiet, caught between defeat and defense:
“She didn’t even want to talk about the comeback.”
Mira’s mouth twitched, caught between frown and smirk. “Looked more like she didn’t want to talk to us.”
The words landed sharper than she meant. Rumi’s flinch was almost invisible—a slight pull at her shoulders—but Mira saw it, and guilt flickered. She softened. “I mean… maybe she’s just tired.”
Rumi rubbed her forearm, eyes lowered, thumb tracing the pale skin there as if she could ground herself. “No. That line… ‘That’s what you usually do anyway.’” Her voice dipped, breaking at the edges. “She sounded like she meant it.”
Mira tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling as if answers might be scribbled in the plaster cracks. Her jaw flexed, but silence said more than words could.
Rumi turned toward her, voice barely above a breath. “Do you think… we’ve been making her feel left out?”
Mira didn’t move, but her chest tightened, sharp as a pulled muscle.
It was possible. Too possible.
“Decisions,” Rumi continued, eyes fixed on the empty doorway. “Rehearsals. Strategy. We move fast. Sometimes we don’t even ask her.”
“She’s not as steady as us,” Mira countered quickly. Too quickly. Her tone came out like armor—sharp, defensive.
She knew what she wanted to call it. Resentment. Betrayal. Words that burned too final on her tongue. She couldn’t admit the truth: that she was afraid. Afraid Zoey was already halfway gone.
So she dressed it in logic.
“She’s been… planning things without us.” Mira pressed the mug to her chest, too tight, clutching ceramic heat like it could steady her heartbeat. “Even before the accident. Those lyrics. The notes.”
Rumi’s lips pressed thin, but she didn’t interrupt.
Mira twisted the mug in her hand, porcelain scraping against her rings. “If you look at it practically—it’s an exit strategy. A safety net. Something she built in case…” Her throat caught, but she forced the words, clipped and fast. “In case we weren’t enough.”
Rumi’s eyes lifted, wide and wet.
“That’s what you think?”
Mira shrugged, feigning calm. “I don’t think it. I see it. She’s got half a solo album hidden away. That doesn’t happen by accident.”
The words sliced clean, and Rumi’s shoulders curled inward like she’d been struck.
“It’s not just practicality.” Her hand clenched at her side, nails digging crescents into her palm. “It’s…” She faltered, throat catching.
Mira waited, still but taut.
Rumi’s voice rose despite herself, breaking with heat: “The chorus.”
Mira frowned. “What?”
“The note in her notebook.” Rumi’s voice shook, raw and rising. “The one she scratched out. ‘Ask Rumi if she would do the chorus for this one.’”
Mira’s breath caught. She remembered—the slash of ink through the words, the smaller scrawl beneath: Would Mira feel left out?
Rumi pressed her palms together, fingers trembling against each other. “Do you know what that felt like? Reading that? Like I was just—some helper. Not equal. Just a feature.”
Her eyes shone, caught between anger and grief. “And the worst part? A piece of me was proud. Like—oh. She thought I could carry her chorus. Like that meant something.”
She let out a laugh, brittle and breaking.
“But it didn’t— It meant… she already saw beyond us.”
Mira swallowed hard, her mug now lukewarm but still gripped too tightly, knuckles pale. Letting go would mean admitting too much. “Rumi—”
“No, just—” Rumi lifted her chin, shaky but defiant. Her eyelids fluttered fast, blinking back tears. “You asked what I think. That’s it. It hurt. It still does.”
Her voice trembled, trailing smaller: “And if she were to ask… I would do it anyway.”
The confession broke off, voice fading thin. She shook her head, as if even hearing herself was unbearable.
The fridge hummed, too loud in the stillness. The air itself seemed to pulse.
For once, Mira had no sharp retort. No armor. Her edges dulled in the quiet.
Finally, Rumi broke the silence, her voice a whisper:
“How long are we going to pretend we don’t know she’s moving on?”
The words cut harder than any fight ever had.
Mira set her mug down, ceramic clinking against the counter like punctuation. She breathed slow, forcing steadiness.
“We wait. As long as it takes.”
Her tone was calm, but her nails pressed crescents into her palm.
“We respect her privacy. Let her come to us when she’s ready.”
Rumi stared at her, disbelief soft and raw.
“You’re not scared we’ll lose her?”
Mira’s eyes flicked away.
“Of course I am. But if we push, we risk more than the group. We risk her.”
Rumi’s throat bobbed. She wanted to argue, but deep down, she knew Mira was right. The fear twisted anyway.
She sank into a chair, elbows on the table, hands tangling in her hair. “I don’t want to lose her. Not the lyricist. Not the friend. Not Zoey.”
Mira crossed her arms again, her eyes gentler now. “We won’t. Even if Huntr/x changes… we won’t lose her. We can’t.”
Her conviction steadied the room, just for a beat.
But it wasn’t enough for Rumi. Not tonight.
She rose, resolve etched in the set of her jaw. “I’m going to check on her.”
Mira didn’t stop her. Just nodded once, quiet.
---
Rumi padded down the hallway, floorboards creaking faint under her weight. The closed door loomed, paint scuffed where posters had once been taped.
She knocked softly. The sound barely carried, like a whisper against wood.
Nothing.
Then, a muffled, weary: “...Yeah.”
She eased the door open.
The room smelled faintly of soda and candy wrappers, the sweetness cloying in the dim. Clothes lay draped over a chair. The glow of Zoey’s phone lit the bedside.
Her eyes swept finding Zoey sprawled across her bed, one arm draped over her face, still in her pajamas, hair messy from the pillow.
The sight stabbed at her—fragile, human, so different from the force Zoey showed on stage, in combat.
The music from her phone played low, lyrics she was probably testing bleeding into the quiet.
Her gaze flicked toward Rumi, then away. “Hey.”
Zoey eyes were red-rimmed, though whether from exhaustion or emotion, Rumi couldn’t tell.
“Can I…?” Rumi asked, lingering at the threshold.
Zoey shifted, pulling her arm down. A small nod.
Rumi crossed the room carefully and sat on the edge of the mattress. The blankets radiated warmth into her skin, cocooning. She lay down slowly, her head finding Zoey’s shoulder with instinctive ease. The dip of the mattress pressed them closer.
The familiarity ached.
Zoey froze, breath catching as Rumi’s hair brushed her jaw. Her whole body went stiff under the sudden weight.
“Uh… you okay?” Zoey muttered.
“Yeah.” Rumi’s voice was soft, tired. “Just… needed this.”
The silence stretched. Only the faint buzz of music filled the air.
Finally, Rumi whispered, her voice trembling against Zoey’s collarbone: “You used to hug me all the time. Pull at my arm. Get in my space. Always so close I couldn’t breathe.”
Zoey’s fingers curled in the blanket, tight, nails dragging against fabric. Her chest rose uneven, fighting her own reaction.
“I thought maybe it was too much,” she muttered, voice raw.
Rumi lifted her head just enough, eyes wide and wet, pleading. “I would like that back.”
Zoey blinked, stunned.
“Or just more of that,” Rumi continued, voice shaking but steadying with every word. “I miss it. I miss you. I miss… us.”
The words lingered in the room, fragile but unflinching.
Zoey swallowed hard, throat burning. No clever comeback. No armor. Just the ache of being seen.
She leaned back into the contact, tentative. Fragile.
Rumi closed her eyes, relief flooding warm against the ache in her chest. For now, it was enough.
Their breaths fell into sync, chest to chest, a rhythm steady as a tide.
The phone buzzed faintly with music, a heartbeat outside them both.
They lay there in silence. Not everything was fixed.
Not even close.
But the distance between them had closed, if only by a breath.
And sometimes, a breath was enough.
Notes:
So... how are we feeling?
Chapter 34: Candy Wrappers
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Buzz
Bobby: Good morning girls!
I can’t wait to see you today!
Friendly reminder that we have until end of day Friday to confirm for the interview after the fan event.
By the way tickets are sold out.
I understand we are holding on performances due to the circumstances, but we should start planning your first full appearance.
No pressure tho! Fans seem understanding!
As always I am here for literally anything you need! Love you girls. 💕💯
He added a link at the end.
Mira observed the screen with slumber still pressing hard on her. Eyes half open, messy hair, mind not fully awake. It took her a minute to remember what day it was.
Thursday. Yeah, Thursday.
She looked at the clock on her phone—6:12 a.m.—which meant they had two days to confirm the interview. And she could only hope it didn’t turn out like the fan event. With Rumi having to make the call and give the green light because Zoey wouldn’t give a straight answer.
Her mind stuck replaying the image of Zoey’s eyes darting away. Which seemed to be happening fairly often in recent days.
Mira shifted in the bed.
She hesitated looking at the link. Bobby had sent so many in the last three days that she felt overwhelmed. Since their first public appearance had been confirmed, every news channel, every radio station, every magazine was talking about them.
Just last night the big news was Rumi being listed among the Global 100 Most Beautiful Faces. For Mira the only thing surprising about it was how long it had taken them to make it official.
There were several articles on Zoey and her “amazing recovery after the failed stunt attempt”—how lucky she was to have survived and multiple guesses at what the stunt had been. Bobby’s official statement said they would refrain from sharing that information in order to prevent fans from trying it themselves.
Just a couple of days ago, Mira had been the hot topic. Somehow, the list of brands asking for her as an ambassador had leaked. And even though she would much rather stay with her usual partnerships, public statements from designers kept popping up on her feed. She had even been invited to catwalk for several events.
She tried to stay away from social media. Too many people trying to pretend they knew their lives. Her life.
She sighed and opened the link.
It was another article, glossy headline shouting back at her: Huntr/x Breaks Records Before Stepping Onstage. The numbers had blown off the charts just from announcing their fan event. Mira scrolled lazily, half skimming. Compliments peppered the text: Rumi’s “otherworldly vocals,” Mira’s “command of the stage, a dancer who seems to bend gravity itself.” A paragraph on Zoey, the “miracle member” who gave fans hope.
Mira’s eyes glazed. The words felt unreal, like they were describing strangers. She skipped ahead, scrolling faster, until the praise blurred into white noise.
With a groan, she tossed the phone onto the pillow beside her and pressed her hands over her face.
" We were supposed to get a break."
She mumble to herself.
_____________
Time had blurred the last couple of days. Training sessions with Celine still came in their sharp, relentless rhythm, and afterward the three of them sparred in the empty silence she left behind.
Zoey had grown more comfortable in her body. Mira could see it in the way the younger girl moved—less flinching, more certain.
But every now and then, when pain flickered across Zoey’s face like a crack in glass, Mira caught herself tightening inside. That was what Zoey wanted—this swallowing down, this stubborn insistence—but it didn’t stop Mira from noticing.
The only reassurance she allowed herself was this: every time the pain leaked through, Zoey grew more defensive, more measured, holding back where once she would have thrown herself wild. At least she was trying to rein herself in.
Rumi, too, had begun falling into their old rhythm. Sparring with her like that again made Mira feel unstoppable, as though each movement doubled in strength when Rumi was beside her.
That same feeling carried into the studio.
She had only started rehearsing again a couple of days ago, but something about the dancing burned through her dread of the comeback.
Onstage or in the mirrored room, sweat cooling on her spine, she felt free. Dance was a catharsis—muscle and breath stripping away tension until her mind cleared.
Through movement, she could speak emotions too heavy for words, let them bleed out through her hands, her steps. She almost laughed at herself for not leaning on it during the darkest weeks; it seemed so obvious now.
Convincing the others to join her had been easier than expected. Yesterday was their first session together. Of course, Zoey had been out of sync, out of breath, stumbling with a muttered curse between steps.
That was expected.
What mattered was that Rumi and Mira hadn’t said a word. They stopped when Zoey did, waited until she straightened, and began again at her pace. No complaints. No questions. It was second nature—like sparring, like breathing.
What wasn’t second nature was Zoey’s phone. It had been glued to her hand lately, vanishing into her pocket the moment Mira or Rumi came close. Mira noticed how her thumb twitched at the screen, the way her jaw tightened when the device buzzed during practice.
And during Celine’s vocal drills—when the studio filled with strained notes and corrections—Zoey’s irritation leaked through in tiny flashes: a heel tapping too hard against the floor, a sigh too sharp between breaths, eyes rolling before she caught herself.
Mira didn’t miss the way Zoey bit down on her lip, either—half nerves, half swallowed words.
Annoyance? Maybe. But Mira let herself study it longer. Zoey’s shoulders weren’t set in defiance; they were hunched in that jittery way people get before stepping into a storm. Her jokes came late, softer, as though she was bracing herself instead of throwing sparks.
Stage nerves. That could be it.
Mira almost smiled at the thought—Zoey, their chaotic hurricane, rattled by the idea of a spotlight. It sounded ridiculous after watching her claw her way back from death itself. And yet, the possibility was… almost endearing.
What wasn’t amusing about Zoey’s nerves was the candy. The maknae had been inhaling it nonstop these last couple of days.
Empty wrappers and half-crushed ziploc bags trailed behind her like breadcrumbs—on the studio floor, tucked into corners of the penthouse, forgotten in the elevator. It was everywhere, bright foil flashing under the lights like confetti after a party.
Mira had tried confronting her once. Zoey’s answer came quick, sharp—teeth in her voice that didn’t match the question. Borderline aggressive.
Mira let it slide, telling herself it was just pressure, Zoey coiling all that weight into sugar and motion.
But in private, she wondered if Zoey’s frustration was aimed at her—if the maknae thought she was pressing too deep, hovering too close. She questioned if the girl was simply tired of her interference
And then there was Rumi.
On the surface, she seemed fine. Solid. But Mira knew better.
Every now and then, Rumi’s raw empathy surfaced in ways she couldn’t mask: her shoulders leaning subtly toward Zoey when her tone dipped, her hand hesitating mid-air as though she wanted to reach out but didn’t. Instead, she covered the moment with warmth—a gentle joke, a soft laugh, eyes flicking toward Zoey like lanterns in the dark.
And Zoey, predictably, grew uncomfortable under it. She looked away too fast, tugged her sleeves down, bit into her candy louder than necessary. Trying to hide something in plain sight.
Funny enough, it was Mira who Rumi had started confiding in. Not everything—Mira could feel the edges of what was left unsaid—but enough. The walls were thinning.
Like last night. They’d paused at the edge of the hallway before splitting off to their rooms, the light low and quiet enough that voices carried softer.
“Are you still doubting if you’re ready for it?” Mira asked.
“A little.” Rumi didn’t hedge, her honesty landing heavy. “But I know I want to be back on stage with both of you.” Her voice dropped smaller, almost tender. “When we’re there, it’s just us. The world disappears. And I feel… powerful.”
That was when Mira caught it—the subtle stiffening of her frame, the way Rumi’s breath caught in her chest like she’d swallowed words. Her eyes shuttered a fraction too long before meeting Mira’s again.
Mira closed the distance carefully, one finger under her chin to draw her gaze back up. “What is it?”
Rumi’s eyes darted down, then flicked back with hesitation clear as water. “I still have... nightmares. About the Awards.”
Mira let the phrase hang in her chest as she moved through the motions of getting ready to meet Bobby.
Rumi had been hurting too—through Zoey’s fight, and long before it.
Mira had known, and still, for a while, she left her alone.
The thought cut sharper now.
Had Rumi’s mind wandered back to that edge? The place where she once questioned whether life itself was worth it?
She knew the signs—how Rumi had barely slept in the last two and a half months. Somehow that reality had blurred into routine, normalized until Mira almost forgot what sleeplessness does to a brain.
Forgotten the way exhaustion warps perception, frays control.
And then the image surged back.
Not a memory—too vivid, too raw for that.
Rumi, defeated. Hollow-eyed, trembling, her body past its breaking point. Her golden irises glowing unnaturally, veins of light threading her eyes until they looked alien. Claws black and glistening, her arms consumed by writhing purple skin and those dark, merciless patterns overtaking her body.
A monster and a child all at once, seams tearing, the human parts of her screaming beneath it.
And her voice—just one line.
A plea Mira now understood had been a cry for closeness, not accusation: “You don’t trust me anymore.”
Mira’s fist slammed into the bathroom wall. Hard. Pain flared up her knuckles, grounding her in the present as the memory cut deeper.
Because for almost two months she had chosen silence.
Told herself it was mercy, protection—shielding Rumi from the poison Mira carried, from the venom she knew could slip past her tongue if she let her walls crack.
But on that rooftop… in those endless two minutes… when Rumi had mirrored her silence, reaching out instead through stillness.
Mira had felt her own walls split, self-control deserting her, every part of her threatening to unravel.
If that conversation had turned a fraction differently, she might have forgotten herself completely.
Now the thought that lodged in her chest was this: how strong was Rumi, truly, to carry that weight for so long without breaking?
Mira stepped into the shower and tilted her head forward, letting the hot water drum against her scalp. It streamed down her forehead, blurred her eyes, soaked her hair until strands clung to her skin.
She let it drag down her face and into the drain as if the heat and the water together could wash her thoughts away.
Steam clung to the mirror when she stepped out, blurring her own reflection into something shapeless. She dressed with deliberate precision, each layer of fabric a kind of armor against the thoughts that refused to rinse away.
By the time she joined the others, her hair was still damp at the ends, the scent of soap clinging faintly to her skin.
The ride over passed in silence broken only by the hum of the car and Zoey’s restless tapping against her phone screen. Rumi sat beside her, posture straight, expression calm, though Mira caught the faint twitch of her fingers against her knee—as if she were keeping rhythm with a song no one else could hear.
The city blurred past the windows, sunlight flashing against glass towers, banners, and posters that carried their faces in larger-than-life prints.
Fans already lingered at corners, some holding phones up even when the car didn’t slow. Mira pressed her hand to the window once, feeling the cold glass against her palm before drawing it back.
By the time they reached the building, she had pulled herself into the same steady stillness she always carried into battle.
_____________
“My girls!!!” Bobby shouted dramatically when the trio stepped in, Celine trailing just behind them.
Three oversized gift baskets sat waiting by his desk, all ribbons and cellophane.
And then came the hug.
A flying, unrestrained hug that none of them expected—yet all three melted into it with genuine gratitude.
Mira let herself be truly present in that moment: the heat of bodies pressed against hers, the firm arms looped around her shoulders.
Zoey’s heartbeat fast and irregular against her right side,
Rumi’s steadier one against her left.
Bobby’s warm smile hovered in front of them, and even though she couldn’t see it, Mira could feel Celine’s protective glare at her back like a shield.
For once, she smiled. A real smile.
The office air had changed—Bobby’s cologne mixing with the sweet tang of candy and the clean scent of flowers. Sunlight spilled in through the tall window, turning the gray carpet into a patchwork of warm brown.
The walls glimmered, platinum records stretching from floor to ceiling like silent witnesses.
When the hug finally broke, Bobby lingered just a little longer with Zoey. Mira didn’t need words to know it wasn’t about her—it was about him.
His shoulders were clinging rather than supporting, his breath catching in that uneven way that belonged more to comfort-seeking than reassurance.
Mira understood.
After all, she herself had collapsed into tears the moment Zoey came back to them.
Zoey’s gaze drifted past Bobby, up to one of the frames on the wall. A familiar title caught her eye, the reflection of gold letters sharp against the glass.
Her lips moved before she seemed to realize it—half a mutter, half a sigh—an English lyric slipping free, quiet enough that only Mira caught the sound. A line sung under her breath, more muscle memory than performance.
The conversation trickled into small talk about Bobby’s vacation, that had been cut short once again. He’d returned to handle the mess of public opinion and media coverage around Zoey’s injury.
Suddenly the shift in tone was swift.
Celine matched his corporate language effortlessly, volleying jargon back and forth like a second dialect. Rumi joined in with quiet proficiency, her posture composed, her tone measured.
Mira let her eyes drift. She studied the line of Rumi’s shoulders, the calm authority she wore like a uniform. It made her chest ache—the sight of their leader stepping fully back into place.
And then her gaze fell to Zoey.
The maknae’s eyes weren’t really on anyone in the room. They roamed the wall of records with something Mira could only describe as hunger.
Her gaze darted, then glazed, unfocused as if she was halfway between daydream and ache.
Fingers worked idly at the seam of her pocket, tugging until a small crinkle betrayed a candy bag. She pulled out a gummy worm, popped it into her mouth, and Mira caught the faint wrinkle of her nose, the twitch of her jaw.
Sourness. And still she chewed.
A small snort escaped Mira before she could stop it. It fascinated her, how Zoey despised half those flavors yet ate them anyway, as if compulsion outweighed preference.
Maknae energy, Mira thought, her mind flicking back to debut days—Ziploc bags of candies scattered across the makeup counters, and Zoey, frantic, pale with what Mira had interpreted as stage panic, tearing through drawers just to find them.
“…okay with that, if Zoey and Mira agree.”
Her name on Rumi’s lips snapped her back.
“If you agree, I agree.” Mira’s voice landed with practiced confidence. She didn’t care what the agreement was. If Rumi had said yes, that was all she needed.
Rumi smiled at her.
Not polite—knowing.
Her eyes softened, corners creasing in that subtle way that said she’d heard Mira’s real meaning. And Mira knew it too: Rumi recognized when her attention had drifted, when she leaned on trust instead of detail.
“Great!” Bobby nearly bounced from his chair. “Which means Zoey has the last word. What do you say?”
All eyes turned to the lyricist.
Zoey was still staring at the wall. Her posture stiffened at the sudden weight of attention. She shifted in her chair, shoulders curling inward, thumb rubbing circles against her thigh. Her jaw worked but no words came.
“Zoey?” Bobby called again, softer this time. Slower. His tone grounding, coaxing. “What do you say?”
Zoey’s eyes finally lifted to meet his. They darted a couple times, before holding. “I—I… well—mmm.” She chewed her lip, fumbling either for words or for restraint. Mira couldn’t tell. Her hands flexed against her knees, fingers opening and closing like she was fighting to keep them still.
“Whatever you decide is fine. It doesn’t matter.” The words came fast, clipped, detached. Then Zoey stood abruptly, chair legs scraping against the carpet. “I need water.” And without another glance, she slipped out of the room.
Silence followed. Eyes lowered to the table, no one daring to chase the empty space she left behind.
Mira waited a beat before excusing herself.
Out in the hallway, she caught sight of Zoey by the water cooler. The younger girl tipped a cup to her mouth, swished, then spat sharply into the trash can.
Mira froze mid-step.
Zoey’s whole frame screamed disgust—shoulders hunched, face twisted, her hand trembling slightly as she crushed the paper cup. Mira didn’t know what to make of it.
Didn’t know how to name it.
So she turned.
Back to the office.
Back to the car.
Back to the penthouse.
Back into her room—where the image clung to her vision like a ghost, choking her thoughts before they could stitch together the gaps.
Notes:
🫠
Chapter 35: The comeback
Chapter Text
Mira rinsed the last of her coffee down the sink, the warm bitterness lingering at the back of her throat. She set the mug upside down on the counter, the ceramic clinking against metal, and wiped her palms on the towel.
The penthouse was quiet. Not peace—never peace—but the kind of silence that felt like someone holding their breath.
When she turned around, her eyes caught on the sofa.
Rumi sat curled into one corner, phone in hand, shoulders rounded forward like a shield. The glow lit her face in pulses of cool blue and white, shadows carving under her eyes. Her thumb hovered over the screen, but she wasn’t scrolling. Just… staring.
At the other end, Zoey slouched deep into the cushions, remote balanced loosely in her palm. Her wrist flicked with idle impatience, flipping channels in jerky skips until she stopped on the news.
The anchor’s polished voice filled the air, too soft for background noise, too sharp to ignore. Zoey’s gaze wasn’t really on the screen—it tunneled straight through it, her reflection ghosted faintly back at her in the glass.
Mira hesitated. Normally she stood apart at moments like this—back against a wall, watching, hovering like a sentry. But something in the stillness tugged at her, urging her closer.
She crossed the room, the carpet muffling her steps, and lowered herself into the middle cushion.
The shift was instant. Subtle. Instinctive. Both girls leaned toward her the second she sat.
Zoey’s shoulder brushed hers first, restless and fleeting. Rumi followed slower, steadier—her temple tipping closer, weight heavy in a way that whispered of exhaustion more than choice.
Mira stayed very still, letting herself breathe it in. For once, she wasn’t orbiting. She was anchored between them.
On her right, Rumi’s lips shaped the words on the screen, barely above a whisper: “Remember I need an answer tonight. No pressure. We’ll be okay either way. 💪💯.” Her thumb tapped the glass in a stuttered rhythm, uneven as a heartbeat.
On her left, the news anchor’s voice carried on, too bright, too clean:
“Huntr/x’s long-anticipated return has fans across the globe buzzing with excitement. Rumi’s unmatched beauty and Mira’s otherworldly presence continue to dominate headlines—”
Mira felt Rumi flinch, almost imperceptible, her shoulder tightening against hers.
“…and of course, we cannot forget Zoey, the miracle member, lucky enough to survive what could have ended more than her career entirely. Many are saying her perseverance is inspiring, though concerns remain about the group’s ability to perform live shows given Zoey’s recent injuries—”
The voice cut off mid-sentence.
Zoey’s thumb pressed the remote so hard the plastic clicked, the television dropping into black.
Silence rushed back in, heavier now, like the room itself had inhaled and refused to exhale.
Rumi’s phone screen dimmed. Her gaze stayed locked there anyway.
Zoey’s reflection lingered on the blank television, remote clutched tight in her hand, jaw flexing hard enough to ache.
Both lost in their own storms. Both leaning against Mira. And for once, she was right there in the center of it.
She let the silence stretch a moment longer before breaking it. Her eyes stayed on the blank screen, but her voice reached sideways, soft and careful.
“Everything okay, Zoey?”
Zoey’s breath hitched, sharp through her nose, like she’d been holding it too long. Her grip on the remote tightened until her knuckles whitened.
“If I hear ‘resilient,’ ‘miracle,’ or ‘lucky’ one more time,” she muttered, voice low and knife-edged, “I’m going to lose it.”
The threat hung in the air, heavy enough to rattle.
Mira didn’t flinch. She tilted her head, tone clipped with blunt practicality.
“Then don’t listen.”
Rumi finally tore her eyes from the dim screen of her phone, leaning slightly forward. Her voice was quiet, but steady.
“Media of any type makes me sick too. Fans, reporters… how they see me doesn’t match how I see myself.”
Zoey blinked, her shoulders dropping a fraction. Her lips pressed tight, weighing it. For the first time, she let herself believe she wasn’t the only one.
Her gaze flicked between them, chest loosening just enough to breathe.
“You two sound like you’ve got it figured out,” she muttered, a half-laugh slipping out like it surprised her.
Rumi tilted her head, a small smile twitching at her lips. “We don’t. We’re just better at faking it.”
Zoey huffed, the corner of her mouth quirking. “Guess I need lessons.”
Mira seized on that smile, leaning back into the cushions with deliberate ease.
“Lesson one: don’t let them decide who you are. Lesson two…” She let the pause hang, catching both sets of eyes. “…keep your candy hidden, or Rumi steals it.”
Rumi gasped, swatting Mira’s arm lightly. “That was one time.”
Zoey’s laugh burst sharper this time, real and unguarded. “One time? I’ve got receipts.”
The air shifted—lighter, warmer, almost safe.
Mira let it linger just long enough before slipping her curveball in, her voice turning playfully sharp.
“Good. Because you’re doing the interview alone after the fan event, Zoey.”
Her smirk threatened, curling at the edges of her lips.
“What?!” Zoey bolted upright, eyes wide. The blood drained from her face. “No—absolutely not—”
Her chest rose too fast, hands flailing for emphasis. Interviews gutted her every time—she hated the nerves, the stumbles, the rules of etiquette she could never quite nail, the way it felt like the whole world could see straight through her.
Rumi’s elbow jabbed Mira’s ribs, sharp enough to sting. Her glare followed, sharp and incriminating.
Mira only snorted, rubbing her side, laugh breaking through. The smirk bloomed openly across her face now.
“I thought you said, ‘Whatever we decide is fine.’”
Zoey floundered, heat rising in her cheeks. “I—well—I didn’t mean—” She sank into the couch, smaller, words tripping and apologetic.
But Rumi’s voice cut in before she could spiral further. Protective. Firm.
“She agrees with whatever we decide because she knows we wouldn’t leave her in an uncomfortable position.”
Her eyes flicked to Mira, then back to Zoey. Teasing would have been the natural rhythm, the easy choice. But beneath Zoey’s reaction was something too fragile, too raw to toy with.
So Rumi leaned forward, lowering her voice.
“Do you want us to do that interview, Zoey? Bobby needs an answer today.”
Zoey’s throat worked, but no sound came out. She pressed the remote harder into her palm, like the plastic might give her strength.
Her knee bounced, restless, then stilled when she noticed both pairs of eyes on her. The silence pressed too heavy, like the air itself was waiting.
“You haven’t answered yet?” Zoey finally asked, her voice thin and hesitant, almost lost in the quiet. Her gaze flicked between them, searching.
Mira snorted softly through her nose—not dismissive, not cruel, but almost incredulous, like do you even have to ask? The sound carried dry reassurance, her way of saying without frills: of course we haven’t decided without you. We’re a team.
Rumi, in contrast, gave a soft smile. Not forced, not pitying. Just gentle, like she wanted to catch Zoey’s words before they could fall apart.
“We need to know what you want,” Rumi said, her voice steady, quiet but carrying. She tilted her head just enough that her braid brushed her cheek, her eyes never leaving Zoey’s. “It matters.”
The words hung there, fragile and solid all at once.
“I…” She stopped, jaw tightening. “I don’t—” The words strangled, too many directions at once.
Mira didn’t press. Her gaze stayed steady, quiet, giving no judgment.
Rumi’s eyes softened, waiting.
Zoey blew out a sharp breath, cheeks puffing. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll do it.” The words came fast, almost defensive, her chin lifting like armor.
But her voice cracked at the edges, and the bravado faltered.
Mira tilted her head slightly, the faintest curve of her brow saying what her mouth didn’t: Try again.
Zoey deflated into the cushions, groaning low into her hands. “Ugh. No, I can’t. Not yet. I hate interviews. I hate—” She gestured vaguely toward the blank television, fingers splayed. “That. All of it. Everyone looking at me like they already know what I am.”
Her hands dropped, thudding into her lap. She looked smaller now, pulled in on herself.
“I’m not…” Zoey’s voice dimmed, softer, almost swallowed. “…what they say I am.”
Her hand slipped into her pocket, fingers searching for the familiar crinkle of a candy wrapper—her lifeline, her anchor. Nothing. Just fabric. Empty.
Her jaw clenched, tight enough her teeth ached.
Rumi shifted beside her. The motion was small, almost imperceptible, but the twitch of her fingers betrayed the instinct to reach out. She didn’t—not yet—but the warmth of her nearness carried its own quiet message: you don’t have to finish that sentence alone.
Mira’s voice cut through the silence. Still practical, but gentler than before, its edges softened.
“Then let them be wrong. What matters is what you say. Your words. Your voice. That’s what they’ll hear.”
Zoey’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes dropped to the floor, lashes trembling, vision blurring at the edges. Too many voices echoed inside her head—the headlines, the whispers, the laughter, the cruelty—the pity. Drowning her out.
“I don’t want to embarrass us,” she muttered, barely more than breath.
“You won’t.” Rumi’s answer came quick, sharp with conviction. No hesitation, no space for doubt. It landed like fact, not comfort.
Zoey risked a glance upward. Mira sat steady, composed as stone, while Rumi’s raw openness radiated like a flame. The contrast pinched something deep in Zoey’s chest, sharp and aching.
Her throat tightened. This time she didn’t fight it.
“…If I mess up, you’ll back me up?” The words were small, fragile—but they cracked something wide open between them.
Mira leaned closer, shoulder pressing firmly against Zoey’s. “Always.”
Rumi finally bridged the gap, her fingers brushing Zoey’s wrist. Just a touch, feather-light but grounding, enough to steady the storm. “Every time.”
Zoey let out a shaky breath, caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. The tension strung tight through her frame loosened—just a fraction, just enough. Maybe they would understand.
Her lips parted, the start of something vulnerable breaking free. “I—”
But then her body stiffened, trembling—not with emotion this time, but with something deeper. A shiver climbed her spine like ice water poured straight through her bones.
Her head jerked instinctively toward the window.
The Honmoon rippled. The protective barrier trembled in the distance like disturbed water, a faint shimmer warping against the skyline.
She heard it then—the twin catches of breath at her sides. Mira’s inhale sharp as a blade, Rumi’s soft and ragged. All three of them reacting at once, instincts locking into place.
Zoey’s pulse surged. Her skin prickled. For the first time in a week, the storm inside her went silent. Not gone—but drowned by something louder.
The demons were crossing.
And for one impossible moment, she had never felt so thankful. For the clarity, for the fight, for something that gave her no choice but to move.
The elevator door rang open. Celine entered with her usual precision, steps measured, presence sharp. Her eyes swept the room once, but when they landed, they stayed. Irrefutably, unshakably, on Zoey.
“Ready?” she asked.
Zoey’s throat worked. She swallowed hard, the air heavy in her lungs. Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms.
Her voice came steady, stripped of all but resolve.
“Yes.”
______________
One by one, their breaths took over the silence, until the echoes carried out over the empty port.
The four hunters moved together, boots striking the cracked asphalt as they crossed toward the warehouse. It loomed ahead like a rusted skeleton, its steel beams catching the low sunlight in jagged shards, its hollow windows gaping dark against the sky.
Behind it, the city skyline shimmered across the water. Towers of glass and chrome reached upward, glowing in the late light, but from here they looked small, powerless. Decorations in the distance, useless against what waited on this side of the shore.
The air clung heavy with salt and iron, a mix of rust and sea spray. The faint scent of oil drifted off the dockyard, sharp enough to burn in the nose. Each step forward thickened the quiet, until it felt like the afternoon itself was holding its breath—suspended, waiting for the snap.
Zoey’s boots scuffed half a beat late. She kept just one step behind, her hands fidgeting, eyes darting too fast from shadow to shadow. Hesitant—but still moving forward.
Rumi angled slightly left, the faint glow of her patterns just visible under her sleeves where the sunlight grazed them. Mira cut straight down the center, her stride controlled, steady, every muscle wound tight but precise. On the right, Celine’s gaze tracked every angle, posture sharp, steps deliberate.
Together, they shaped themselves around Zoey without needing to speak. Not blocking her. Not dragging her. Just there—an unspoken shield, their presence pressing in close like bodyguards bound by silent resolve.
The warehouse door shifted on its hinges, groaning as the afternoon wind swept through the gaps. The sound carried thin and metallic—then came something lower.
Not steel.
The groan of demons.
It seeped out of the shadows, layered and guttural, vibrating deep in the ribcage until skin prickled.
A chorus of hunger, too alive to mistake.
Zoey faltered mid-step. Her throat bobbed, but no words came. Her chest rose sharp, shallow breaths dragging against the weight of the sound.
Mira glanced back once—brief but piercing. Her eyes were iron steady: stay with us.
Rumi’s hand twitched, ready if Zoey stumbled.
Celine’s jaw clenched harder, her focus absolute, no crack in her armor.
The daylight itself seemed to hesitate. The groans swelled louder, filling the emptiness, pressing in from the dark beyond the door.
And the hunters stepped into the threshold.
Chapter 36: Burnt sugar
Chapter Text
The warehouse reeked of rust and rot, the air thick with damp metal and something sour that clung to the back of the throat. Every step echoed too loud on the cracked concrete, as though the place itself were warning them away.
Zoey trailed half a step behind. Shadows stretched jagged along the walls, and her eyes snapped to each one like it might split open into blades.
Mira noticed—of course she noticed. The twitch of Zoey’s fingers hovering near her pockets, the indecision coiled in her stance. Draw or flee. Fight or falter. Mira’s jaw tightened. She’s going to fail. She’s going to get hurt.
Rumi felt it too, dread knotting low in her stomach. She forced her gaze forward, but the stumble of Zoey’s uneven steps echoed in her right ear, pulling her attention back. Every misstep rang like a warning—one step from collapse.
From deeper inside came the groans. Wet, ragged, animal sounds, like something choking on its own breath.
In one heartbeat, four weapons bloomed from the Honmoon.
Zoey’s hands twitched, fingers grazing the empty air where knives should have materialized.
Celine didn’t move. Her knuckles whitened around the hilts of her violet and blue swords, blades glinting faintly in the dark. She stood steady as a general, eyes sweeping every angle. Only her jaw betrayed her, flexing once. She’s hesitating again.
The thought burned, but she forced her focus wider. Too many corners. Too many shadows. Too many perfect places for death to wait.
The first demon ripped from the dark with a screech that rattled Zoey’s ribs, scraping over the spot she was painfully aware off. Instinct jolted her—sidestep, duck—but her ankle caught uneven ground. She stumbled, breath strangled.
Mira read it instantly. A beat too slow. Feet dragging where they should’ve slid.
Claws tore the air where Zoey’s head had been—
—and before she reset, Mira was there. One clean pivot. Gok-do thrust sharp enough to end the thing mid-motion.
Zoey froze. Mouth dry.
She hadn’t even drawn.
Dead weight, the voices whispered in her head, too many, all at once.
Celine’s gaze never blinked. She saw it all—Zoey’s flinch, Mira’s precision. But she measured the pause, not the failure. Zoey was still counting instead of striking.
Her stance didn’t shift, but her mind was already moving. If she freezes again, I step in. If she breaks, I pull her out.
“Zoey.”
Her voice cracked through the air like steel on stone.
Cold sweat raced down Zoey’s spine.
No—no—please.
Her eyes locked on Celine, breath caught in her chest, waiting for the verdict.
“Stay behind me,” Celine ordered, tone clipped and unflinching. “And get your Shin-kals out. We need range.”
Not punishment. Strategy.
Zoey’s lungs emptied in a shuddering exhale. With a flick of her wrists, six knives shimmered into her hands, catching the faint light.
A chance. Again.
Don’t waste it.
Zoey adjusted her grip, the familiar weight grounding her palms. Shame thinned, focus seeping in its place.Target practice, she told herself.
Her heart hammered, but her stance held. I can do this.
Rumi was already moving.
She slid into Zoey’s blindside, blade slicing silver through the dark, cutting down the demon lunging from the corner.
The air split sharp with metal and smoke—and something sweeter, almost sickly. Burnt sugar. The scent clung as the creature fell.
I can’t let her break here, Rumi swore, chest tight.
Zoey’s knives shimmered into her hands, but her grip was clumsy, palms damp, wrists trembling like the weight of them might tip her over. She tried to steady her breath—one inhale, two—yet the rhythm skittered out of reach.
Another demon lunged low, claws dragging sparks across the concrete. Zoey jerked sideways, too late. One knife slipped from her grip, clattering against the floor.
Celine’s breath locked in her chest.
The fallback command was on the edge of her tongue—two words, clipped and sharp, ready to pull Zoey out before she got torn open.
But she swallowed them.
Her blades didn’t twitch. She didn’t move.
She held her line and gave nothing but her eyes, hard as tempered steel, locked on Zoey.
Stand up. Fight.
Zoey’s pulse roared in her ears. She reached, fingers fumbling against slick steel, forcing the knife back into her hand. Her lungs seized, but she forced the stance again—shoulders squared, blade up.
The demon pounced.
And this time—barely, just barely—her knife cut across its arm, enough to stagger it back. Not clean. Not perfect. But hers.
Celine exhaled through her nose, the breath sharp and controlled. The fallback order dissolved unsaid.
For now, she would let Zoey prove herself.
Then came the sound.
From the far end of the warehouse—footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. Each one reverberated against the beams until it felt less like walking and more like counting down.
Then—laughter.
High. Lilting. Uncanny.
It rippled through the rafters like glass shattering underwater, light and cruel all at once.
Every hunter froze. Silence thickened until the rusted walls themselves seemed to close in.
The rhythm shifted—fight dissolving into anticipation. Mira’s grip cinched on her weapon, knuckles bone-white.
Zoey’s pulse spiked, pounding loud enough to drown the groans of the circling demons. Her chest rose and fell too fast, her body already braced for impact.
The footsteps stopped.
A rusted door convulsed, then burst open with a screech. Hinges snapped, flakes of iron raining down.
Not the Twins.
Just another swarm.
Demons spilled out in a snapping, writhing tide.
The hunters struck fast—saim-geom and gok-do carving merciless arcs, steel flashing, smoke hissing as bodies dissolved. Too fast. Too powerful. Relentless.
But the laughter lingered.
Sharp. Sweet. Poisonous. Clinging to the rafters like cobwebs refusing to burn.
Mira’s gaze snapped upward, throat tight, her mind thrumming with a single question:
Was it real? Or just in our heads?
Zoey stayed in the eye of the storm, shielded by hot pink and purple arcs of steel. Celine anchored the center, eagle-eyed, her voice cutting sharp commands that Mira and Rumi folded into motion.
For a moment Zoey was only a shadow trailing behind—until movement sliced the corner of her vision.
A Shadow pounced over Celine.
Her arm snapped up on instinct. Like remembering a well known rhythm. Knife arced wide, slicing through the air—
—and for the first time, it struck true.
The demon crumpled, dissolving into a burst of pink smoke that curled around her like spun sugar. The air filled with the scent of burnt caramel, sickly-sweet and sharp in her throat.
Heat surged in her chest, raw and electric. Her lungs burned, but the rhythm—finally, the rhythm—sneaked in place. Her feet planted harder, shoulders squared, knives raised.
Six eyes turned toward her.
Mira saw it first—the dangerous switch, chaotic and undeniable.
Zoey felt their gazes.
For a second, their weight became fuel.
For a second, she felt unstoppable.
A demon swung wide, claws catching the dim warehouse light—
Zoey twisted,
too late.
Mira’s heart dropped.
She lunged, distance stretching too far. No—
Steel flashed first.
Rumi’s saim-geom split the demon in a single clean stroke, her body sliding between Zoey and death without hesitation.
"I won’t let you fall." Not again. Rumi's words hung like a promise.
Zoey staggered back, chest heaving. One knife slipped from her grip. Only one remained in her hand, trembling but ready.
Between clashes, Mira’s eyes flicked upward.
A ripple. A distortion along the steel beams overhead—shadows folding against themselves like something alive.
Her chest tightened.
Zoey felt it too. The prickle that wasn’t claws or teeth, but colder—like a thread dragged down her spine. Her hand jerked around the knife hilt, grip slick with sweat. She tried to focus on the demon in front of her, but her gaze kept tugging back to the rafters.
Celine’s blades never wavered, but her eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. She swept the upper edges once, twice, the tension in her shoulders betraying her.
Nothing solid. No faces. No proof.
Just shapes that bent wrong when the light hit.
Below, the groans of demons swelled. A chorus of hunger and metal scraping, swelling so loud it drowned the silence that had fallen.
Still, the unease clung.
The hiss of their breathing. The drip of rusted pipes. That echoing laugh that hadn’t fully died.
Something was watching.
The Twins.
Or maybe just the fear in their bones.
Celine could see it clearly now—four hunters battling not just demons, but the weight of anticipation pressing heavier than claws or teeth. And she’d had enough.
“Mira, give us an exit.”
The clipped order cut through the din sharper than steel. In one swift motion, Mira swapped places with her, lance flashing as she drove into the wall.
“We fight them in the light.”
Celine, Rumi, and Zoey held the line. Without Mira’s raw force at their front, the rhythm shifted. Celine baited the demons, her movements deliberate, making herself a target. Each lunge met with a precise parry, each swipe dodged by a hair’s breadth. Her blades blurred violet and blue, a shield of precision.
That was the opening Zoey and Rumi needed.
Zoey’s knives sliced wide, one cutting clean through a throat mid-swing, her follow-through reckless but effective. Rumi flowed beside her—pinning a demon’s arm with one hand, finishing it with the other. Efficient. Ruthless. The gap held.
And then it came—a blast tearing through the warehouse as Mira’s power ripped an opening in the wall. Light poured in, flooding the gloom with a sharp, blinding brilliance. Air rushed with it, salt-rich and clean, scouring away the stink of iron and decay.
The hunters moved, their breaths syncing to the shift. They pushed into the gap and out into open air.
They paused there for a heartbeat, letting the salt cut through their lungs. The edge dulled instantly.
The roars behind them didn’t sound threatening anymore. They sounded almost—entertaining.
The hunters turned, waiting for the next wave. Confident. Grounded.
All but Zoey.
She felt it—
The ice-pick chill stabbing her spine, colder than any shadow in the warehouse.
It slid deep, unexplainable, until her whole body shook.
------
Sajas crouched at the edge of the skyscraper, wind tugging at their coats, the city stretched below like a broken chessboard.
The twins sat side by side, perfectly still save for the way one pair of hands toyed with binoculars.
Through the glass, the battlefield burned with motion—four figures cutting through the horde like lightning splitting the sky.
Zoey was among them again. Fast. Sharp. Burning alive with chaos in her veins.
Heuk tilted his head, adjusting the focus with lazy precision. “She was supposed to be dead.” His voice was calm, almost amused, like a teacher marking a wrong answer on a quiz.
Gwang’s lips twitched upward into a smile. “And yet there she is.”
Muffled groans rose just behind them, soft and wet, like sound pressed through cloth.
Heuk didn’t flinch. His other hand wasn’t idle. Claws extended, sunk deep into whatever trembled against his grip.
The binoculars stayed steady. “Unexpected variables are… fun.”
Gwang’s chuckle was thin, sharp. “Unexpected, but not unmanageable.”
The twins passed the binoculars back and forth, like children sharing a toy.
Below, Mira’s gok-do flashed, carving a demon clean in half. Rumi’s patterns reflected the sunlight in prismatic shades, her strikes sharp and clean. Celine moved like shadow—precise, sharp, watching every angle. And Zoey—wild, alive in a way that made the battlefield tilt around her.
“They are… learning to move as one again,” Gwang murmured, voice colored with interest. “Almost… beautiful.”
Heuk smirked, lips curling back just enough to show teeth. “And predictable.”
Rumi dove into the thick of the horde, clouds of smoke followed her, fire in her eyes. Heuk’s claws flexed, ever so slightly. “She still behaves exactly as expected.”
Gwang’s gaze lingered on Rumi through the glass. “She does.”
The twins smiled, wide and identical.
A long pause stretched between them, filled with the distant clash of blades and the muffled, wet groans behind.
“The next part isn’t pretty for us,” they said in perfect unison.
Heuk licked his lips slowly, savoring the moment. “No. But every scratch I take…” He twisted his wrist ever so slightly, the muffled pain sharpening behind him. “…little flame will pay a hundred times.”
The words weren’t a threat. They were a promise wrapped in delight.
Gwang’s laughter rang soft, eerie against the storm of battle below. Heuk’s eyes narrowed with something close to hunger. “She will keep bleeding. Until she learns.”
The twins passed the binoculars again, perfectly synchronized, as though the glass itself had never changed hands.
Below, Zoey landed a spinning kick that snapped a demon’s jaw, her feet bounced to regain balance after. She shouted something, voice lost in the distance, but her grin was visible even from here.
“She doesn’t belong,” Heuk said, flat but certain.
“She does now,” Gwang corrected. “That makes her remarkable.”
Mira grabbed Zoey by the collar and yanked her out of the way of a strike, only to drive her blade through the attacker’s throat. Zoey’s grin widened, breathless but fearless.
“Remarkable,” Heuk repeated. “But fragile.”
The muffled sound behind them broke into a sharp, pained cry before choking off again.
Neither twin turned.
Heuk watched the hunters below, his claws flexing slowly, deliberately, inside the unseen body behind them.
“They believe this fight is theirs,” Gwang murmured.
“They believe too much,” Heuk replied.
The twins tilted their heads in unison, as if listening to the same distant melody.
Another muffled groan rattled the air between them.
Zoey vaulted over Rumi’s back, both girls striking in perfect rhythm, splitting their enemies in half. For a moment, their bond lit like fire across the battlefield.
“They are dangerous together,” Gwang whispered, voice full of intrigue.
Heuk smirked. “Dangerous doesn’t mean untouchable.”
The claws twitched again, digging deeper. The muffled cry strangled into silence.
“Not for long,” Gwang added, the smile never fading.
The battle below shifted—the hunters pushing forward, demons falling back.
The twins leaned forward at the exact same time, binoculars swinging between them like a pendulum.
“They win,” Heuk said.
“They think they win,” Gwang corrected.
The twins smiled again. Wide. Empty.
Wind howled past them, dragging at their coats, carrying with it the faint smell of blood.
Heuk tilted his head, finally letting go of the binoculars. His free hand rose high, claws slick and glistening.
With a sharp twist, he flipped his wrist.
The body slid free.
For the first time, Gwang’s eyes flicked at the scene behind them—an elderly man, chest torn open, lips pale and trembling as he slipped from Heuk’s grip.
The twins didn’t watch him fall.
They only listened to the long, distant scream trailing down the skyscraper until it vanished into the noise of the city below.
Gwang tilted his head, calm. “Why didn’t you take his soul?”
Heuk wiped his claws against his coat, eyes still fixed on the hunters below. His grin stretched wider.
“Standards,” he said simply.
The body vanished into the air, scream swallowed by the noise of the city below.
When the silence returned, it carried a weight.
Back in the field, that same echo rippled through the port—thin at first, then folding into the chorus of groans and the ragged pull of breath.
Steel met flesh. Smoke hissed.
The rhythm clicked.
One breath. Four bodies.
They locked into motion like gears, every clash folding into the next.
Mira pivoted sharp, her lance carving space at Zoey’s flank—every strike measured, controlled, a silent promise: I’ll clear the way, but I won’t carry you.
Rumi filled the gaps without hesitation, saim-geom cutting clean through openings Mira left behind. Her breath synced to Zoey’s ragged rhythm, as if tethering her back into place. Hold steady. I’m here. You’re not alone.
Celine commanded the center, her voice sharper than her blades. “Left. Now. Switch.” Each word hit like timing itself, weaving chaos into formation. A general, unshaken.
And Zoey—
She no longer trailed. Her knives flashed wild but deliberate, landing true. She didn’t count. She didn’t hesitate. Her strikes pushed the fight forward, her feral edge bleeding into rhythm. I’m here. I’m not dead weight.
Together they wove a pattern of steel and smoke. Demons shrieked, dissolved, fell. The floor rang, the air hissed, the sour-sweet haze clung to their lungs.
When the last one dropped, silence filled the beams.
Mira’s grip loosened, lance lowering but her eyes still sharp. Rumi’s chest rose and fell fast, steady. Celine held her stance taut until the stillness proved real.
And Zoey—
Zoey’s knives shimmered out of her hands. Sweat slicked her skin, plastering her hair to her temples. Her knees buckled, and she dropped, palms smacking against the cold concrete.
Her chest heaved, lungs scraping raw, every breath tasting of iron and burnt sugar. Her stomach lurched at the sweetness clinging in her throat—too heavy, too cloying, almost enough to choke.
But beneath it, something else pulsed. A thrum in her blood. Wild. Electric. Her muscles shook, her vision blurred, and still her mouth pulled wide into a grin she couldn’t stop.
“You okay, Zo?” Mira asked. Casual. Short. Eyes flickered between the warehouse and the maknae on the ground.
“I’m—” she wheezed, breath splintering. “More than—okay.”
She spat the last word out like defiance, panting sharp through her teeth. “Alive.”
The smile bent under exhaustion but didn’t break.
Mira smirked, quick and knowing. Rumi’s lips softened into relief, her eyes glowing brighter than her blade. Both drew in a breath, shoulders easing at last.
Celine dismissed one sword, the other still angled forward. She stepped to Zoey’s side, her hand settling firm and grounding on the girl’s shoulder. The warmth of it sank through Zoey’s trembling frame, heavy as a vow.
“On your feet when you can,” Celine said, her tone clipped but steady. “We sweep the warehouse.”
Mira and Rumi were already moving toward the breach, steps echoing in sync.
Zoey stayed kneeling, sweat dripping into the fabric of her cargo pants, her fingers curling into the seams. Her whole body was trembling, but she pressed her palm harder into the ground as though she could anchor herself to the earth.
Her throat burned, her body screamed, and still—still—her heart hammered with something hot and undeniable.
I’m back.
Chapter 37: Exit wounds
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The penthouse still smelled like sweat and steel, ghosts of smoke clinging to their clothes. Night pressed heavy against the windows, the city glittering faint but distant.
The hum of traffic far below barely reached them, muffled by glass and altitude.
The fight lingered in their bodies even now—tight shoulders, bruised ribs, knuckles that still ached from striking too hard. Zoey had needed help on their way back.
She probably had only needed a forearm, something steady to lean her weight on. But Mira and Rumi had slid under her arms instead, taking her bodyweight as if the three of them were one body moving together.
Her feet moved, but she wasn’t sure she was carrying anything herself.
Mira’s heart, strong and steady, beat against her left side. Rumi’s, fast and irregular, pounded on her right. So close Zoey could feel both. So close her heartbeat synced to theirs.
So she let them carry her and pretended she needed it. Between her sore muscles and her aching heart—maybe she did.
Once they reached the penthouse, Mira had raided the kitchen for her: cookies, gummies, popcorn, milk tea. She dumped the haul onto the coffee table and muttered something about Zoey “needing 10,000 calories to recover.”
Rumi had barely let go since the fight. Every chance, her arms circled Zoey—pulling her in, pressing her close, murmuring little things: “You were amazing,” “You didn’t give up,” “I’m so proud.”
Each word sank into Zoey like warmth after frostbite, thawing nerves that had been locked too tight for too long.
Mira sprawled against the couch like she’d claimed it hours ago. With lazy precision, she tossed a cushion. It hit Zoey square in the shoulder, bouncing into Rumi’s lap. Zoey startled, eyes wide, breath catching.
“Way to keep Celine’s head on her shoulders, troublemaker.”
The tease was out, but Mira’s eyes—just for that flicker—were proud.
Zoey rubbed the spot where the cushion had hit, lips parting like she might argue. But she didn’t. She caught that flicker in Mira’s gaze and held onto it like a secret.
She had made Mira proud. Proud enough that it leaked through the cracks of her facade.
Her chest rose uneven, as if her body didn’t know how to handle the realization or the wave of warmth that came with it.
I’m enough.
Celine stood a little apart, arms folded loosely, posture impeccable despite the fatigue dragging at her frame. Her praise came softer, steadier, lined with steel.
“You followed through when it counted. Don’t lose that.”
Half warmth, half discipline. Exactly her.
Zoey’s chest swelled.
Loved.
So loved.
So in place.
Her throat tightened. She wanted to say something back—something big, something that could match the weight of what their praise stirred in her—but the words jammed. All that came out was a small, shaky laugh.
Rumi shifted closer, thumb tracing the line of Zoey’s wrist. Zoey leaned into her without thinking, the weight of the day pressing her bones down.
Celine inclined her head slightly, almost as if she understood anyway. Then she excused herself toward the guest floor, voice calm.
Both Zoey and Rumi bit back the plea for her to stay longer. Zoey managed to swallow it; Rumi had even risen to her feet, two steps forward before stopping herself.
Mira saw it all—the tightness in Rumi’s jaw, the way Zoey’s hands twitched at her lap like she was holding something back. She filled the silence bluntly.
“Older people need their rest.” A half-test, thrown like a dart.
Celine’s brow arched, unimpressed. “And younger people need discipline.”
But as she turned back toward them, her arm tightened faintly across her ribs. Her breath stuttered—only once, but Mira caught it. Nine days of patchwork healing, discipline used as glue, silence as distraction.
“Are you seeing Doctor Kang tomorrow?” Mira asked. It wasn’t sharp, but careful—putting it out without pressing.
Zoey blinked at her, surprise flickering in her tired eyes.
Celine nodded once. “Yes. If I don’t get the stitches out soon, it will be…” A wry twist touched her mouth. “Difficult.”
Her fingers tapped the couch’s edge, a restless staccato. The tapping slowed. Then her voice dipped softer, fragile but steady: “I also wanted to visit. Figure out the next step with Ria.”
Her next words came even softer, like she was testing the ground under her feet. “Would you like to come with me?”
Zoey’s breath hitched at everything, but she smiled. “Yes.”
Mira only nodded, but her eyes followed Celine long after she left.
Rumi’s breath caught. She lowered herself into another couch, using the distance to regain composure.
Silence stretched. The hum of the fridge buzzed faint from the kitchen. The city’s glow pressed through the glass.
Zoey’s fingers worried the plastic of a new candy bag, crinkle sharp in the still air.
Then she tore it open.
Gummy worms spilled into her lap. Her eyes lingered too long on the candy, long enough for Mira to notice.
Mira walked towards Zoey, and plucked the orange-green worm from the bag before Zoey could react.
Zoey’s eyes followed her hand, her breath catching like she was bracing to be held, to be forced. But Mira didn’t offer it. Didn’t test her.
She popped it into her own mouth, chewed slow, her face unreadable. Not a wrinkle, not a flicker of disgust.
“You like those?” Zoey asked, caught off guard.
Mira smirked, settling into the chair opposite, legs crossed. “I don’t care for any flavor.” Her eyes flicked to the bag in Zoey’s lap, then back to her. “But I know... you don’t like them.”
The words landed deeper than they should have. Not cruel. Just… knowing. And Zoey’s eyes widened.
Rumi shifted on the couch, her gaze flicking between them, a silent warmth anchoring the space.
The three of them formed a triangle now—Mira in her chair, Rumi leaned forward on the sofa, Zoey caught between with the candy bag clutched like armor.
But for Zoey, it didn’t feel like distance.
For the first time in too long, it felt like closeness. Like they saw her. Not the freak, not the “miracle,” not the dead weight, not the “lucky one.” Her.
Her throat tightened. The worm in her hand sagged between her fingers.
“I’ve been…” she started, then stopped. Her chest rose sharp with the effort. “I’ve been working on something.”
Rumi tilted her head, waiting. Mira stayed silent, eyes steady.
“Music.” Zoey’s gaze dropped to the bag, fingers knotting the plastic until it crinkled loud in the quiet. “Not for us. Just… for me.”
The words fell like glass, sharp and delicate.
Rumi blinked, startled. Her chest tightened, but her lips curved, soft, almost proud. “A solo? Zoey, that’s—”
But Mira’s voice cut in, low and blunt. “Since when?”
The air shifted. Zoey’s heart stuttered.
“A while. Just lyrics, demos. Nothing big.”
Mira’s eyes narrowed, sharp enough to pin Zoey in place. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner? We’re your bandmates, not sideline observers.”
Rumi’s fingers worried the hem of her shirt, eyes darting toward Mira before flicking back. Her voice came out fragile, cracking in the middle. “Is this about us not being good enough for you?”
Zoey’s stomach dropped. “No. God, no.” The words spilled, messy and fast. “Rumi—you have an amazing voice, truely. And Mira—you dance like you own every stage. But the lyrics—my lyrics—they don’t fit. They get in the way of your breaks, your harmony. This isn’t about leaving you behind—it’s about finding space where I’m not… in the way.”
Rumi bit her lip hard, forcing herself to stay quiet, but the words escaped anyway. “Then why does it feel like you were building a stage we weren’t invited to?”
Mira’s smirk had long flattened into a line, her voice dry. Betrayal peaked behind her eyes, quick, short. “Or maybe a door.” The words dripped with implication.
Zoey’s chest rose too fast, words caught in her throat, but she forced them anyway. “It’s not about—It’s not—don’t make it that. I just need to prove something.”
Mira’s smirk didn’t return. Her jaw flexed once, her gaze fixed on the floor before she looked back up, eyes hard. “You’ve been proving it for months. Just not to us.”
Zoey blinked. Confusion cracked her face. “What do you mean?”
Rumi shifted forward, hands on her knees, shoulders curling inward. Her voice was softer, but the strain thinned it out. “We know, Zo. The lyrics. The demos. We’ve known.”
Zoey froze. The bag of candy slipped in her lap, one worm rolling free onto the cushion. Her throat worked, but no sound came.
“You—” she started, but stopped. She had no idea what to say, no footing to land on.
Mira leaned in, elbows on her knees now, sharp posture mirroring Rumi’s but colder. “Did you really think we wouldn’t notice? That we’d just stay blind while you built something without us?”
Zoey shook her head fast, panic rising. “No—it wasn’t like that. It’s just… mine. For me. It’s not against you. I swear.”
Rumi’s lips trembled into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite hurt. “Then why does it feel like you already saw the stage without us?” Her voice broke, raw at the edges. “Like you planned the moment we’d get left behind.”
Zoey’s eyes widened. “No. God, no—I would never—”
But Mira’s gaze didn’t waver. Her words came clipped, surgical. “You wrote yourself an exit, Zo. Even if you won’t say it.”
The weight of the secret—the scratched-out “chorus line,” the “Would Mira feel left out?”—hung unspoken between Mira and Rumi, the phantom of proof Zoey didn’t even know she’d left behind.
And that made it worse. Because Zoey’s desperate denial only sounded like lies to ears already burned by months of knowing.
Zoey curled in on herself, shoulders hunched, voice dropping to a whisper. “You don’t understand. I’m tired of being the lottery ticket. The one who got lucky to be beside you.” Her words shook, jagged. “This is the only way I know how to show them I’m—" good enough "—more than enough.”
Rumi’s hand twitched, wanting to reach out, but she stayed frozen. Her chest ached like the words were aimed straight through her.
Mira leaned back slowly, her chair creaking, the motion deliberate. Her smirk was gone; only her cold analysis remained. “So we were right.”
Zoey looked between them, wide-eyed, trembling. “Right about what?”
Neither answered. How were they supposed to say 'Fearing loosing you' without showing Zoey just how right she’d been to look beyond them.
Rumi looked down. Mira look at the window.
And for the first time since stepping back into the living room, Zoey didn’t feel closer.
She felt like the background actor again, watching two stars who already knew the script she hadn’t even rehearsed.
Her chest burned. Her cheeks flushed. She wanted to scream, to confess everything—the bullying, the whispers, her 'family' group chat, the nightmares, the nights she starved herself to feel control.
But those words could never leave her throat.
Instead she muttered,
“You don’t understand.”
Rumi’s eyes caught tears, her voice trembling like it was trying not to break in half. “We really want to.”
Mira’s shoulders curled inward, the fight gone from her posture. She let out a thin, shaking sigh. “We are trying to.”
The silence that followed crushed the air from Zoey’s lungs.
Until she couldn’t take the it anymore. Not the way Rumi’s eyes glassed but didn’t blink, not the way Mira sat so still she felt like stone carved into human shape.
Her breath hitched. Her chest burned.
“I’m—” The word snapped inside her, useless. She stood instead, phone already clutched in her hand though she didn’t remember picking it up.
She didn’t look back when she left the room. Couldn’t.
Her door clicked shut behind her, sealing the world out. For a moment she just leaned there, forehead pressed to the wood, waiting for her body to stop shaking. It didn’t.
Her desk lamp cast a small circle of light across her room. The notebook sat open where she’d left it, lyrics scratched half-wild, half-careful. The chorus line stared back, daring her to pick up the pen.
Her hand hovered.
Voice or silence.
Notebook or—
She tore her eyes away.
The candy bag was easier. Safer.
She ripped it open and pulled out an orange-and-green worm, sliding it into her mouth. Not chewing, just letting the sourness spread until it burned her tongue. Her body gaged for more than just the sourness, but she swallowed anyway.
Another. Then another.
She lined up the pink-and-blue ones beside her notebook, neat rows, a lifeline she couldn’t reach for yet.
Her hands shook so hard the worms almost blurred.
By the time the bad ones were gone, her stomach was rolling, sour crawling up her throat. Dizzy. Nauseous. She pressed a hand to her middle but kept chewing until the bag was empty.
Only then did she reach for her phone, sugar still coating her teeth like a film she couldn’t scrape off.
On her bed, screen glowing, Bobby’s last message waited: Don't feel pressured. Either way it will be fine.
Is there anything I can do for you?
The girls love you, your fans love you and I love you. 💕
Her thumbs shook, but she typed anyway.
Zoey: Confirming the interview.
On behalf of the group.
Thank you, Bobby.
She stared at the words, heart slamming, then hit send.
The screen went black.
And the fracture stayed wide open.
Notes:
I'm gonna try and finish arc 3.
And after that I may take a small break or dropp more than one "pending conversions" chapter.
My brain needs to re calibrate.
Chapter 38: In My eyes
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The notification buzzed on Rumi’s phone first. She glanced at the screen, expecting Bobby’s usual updates, but the words froze her mid-breath.
Confirmed interview. On behalf of the group.
Her heart stuttered. For a moment she thought she’d misread it. She hadn’t.
“Zoey…” she whispered, the name breaking off into air.
Mira leaned over, eyes narrowing, then sharpened as the message registered. She didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Her jaw just locked tight.
The silence stretched too long. Rumi’s throat worked, guilt crawling hot under her skin. “She—she did this after—” Her words tangled. “After everything we said last night?”
Mira exhaled sharp through her nose, not quite a scoff, but close. Her voice was flat, steel pressed thin. “So that’s her answer.”
Rumi’s chest tightened. “No. No, she’s scared, she—she doesn’t trust us not to hold her back. That’s what this is. It’s not her answer, it’s her… defense.”
Mira finally turned her gaze, sharp as broken glass. “Defense?” The word dripped with disbelief. “Rumi, she cut us out of the choice. Again. That’s not defense—that’s retreat.”
Rumi’s hands twisted in her lap, nails biting her palms. She wanted to argue, wanted to soften the edges, but the ache in her chest wouldn’t let her. “She still included us. She signed it for the group.”
Mira barked a laugh, humorless and bitter. “Don’t fool yourself. She didn’t include us. She spoke instead of us.” Her fingers tapped restless against her thigh, betraying the storm under her stillness. “And now we’re locked in.”
Rumi’s vision blurred, but she forced the tears back. She couldn’t afford them now. “So what do we do?” Her voice cracked. “Mira—what do we do if we keep losing her like this?”
Mira didn’t answer right away. Her eyes flicked toward Zoey’s closed door, the barrier that had become too familiar. Her shoulders drew tight, and for once, her voice broke low.
“We don’t let her stand alone in it. Not even if she tries to.”
Rumi swallowed hard, a sob caught in her chest, and nodded.
They both sat there, the message glowing between them, knowing neither anger nor love had been enough to stop Zoey from pulling the trigger herself.
And both terrified it wouldn’t be the last time.
____________
The kitchen smelled faintly of butter and maple syrup, but neither Rumi nor Mira had touched the food.
Mira leaned against the counter, mug of coffee cradled in her hands, the steam ghosting up into her face. She kept her gaze fixed on the door down the hall, eyes sharp but unfocused, like she was waiting for it to move.
Rumi stood at the island, a fork in her hand. She’d already rearranged the stack of hotcakes three times, nudging berries into neater patterns, drizzling honey where syrup already pooled. Now she was on her fourth attempt, jaw tight, eyes flicking back to the door after every small adjustment.
Neither spoke. The silence was heavy, thick with unasked questions.
When the latch finally clicked, both of their heads snapped up.
Zoey’s door creaked open, her figure small against the hall light. Her hair was mussed from sleep, eyes ringed faint with exhaustion. She hugged her arms across her middle like she was bracing herself against something invisible.
Both Mira and Rumi shifted instantly, posture tilting forward. Not lunging. Just—ready.
“Morning,” Mira said first, her voice dipping low, like she wasn’t sure if it would reach across the space.
“Morning,” Zoey answered, just as hesitant, the word soft and unsure on her tongue.
Rumi let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her shoulders loosened, the rigid line of her jaw easing. Relief softened her whole frame at the simple sound of Zoey’s voice.
“I made your breakfast,” she said, careful, almost shy. “The way you like it.”
Mira set her mug down, eyes not leaving Zoey. “There’s some painkillers too. If you still don’t feel the best.” Her tone was casual, but her stare lingered longer than her words allowed.
Zoey’s arms tightened around her stomach. “I’m not hungry.”
The rejection hit both at once. Mira’s hand stilled on the counter. Rumi’s fork froze above the plate. Their bodies hesitated, caught between insisting and retreating.
Silence spread, thick enough that the hum of the refrigerator felt like thunder.
Rumi’s throat worked before she found her voice. “We got Bobby’s text. About the interview…” Her words trailed, waiting for Zoey to explain, to confess, to say anything that could steady the ground between them.
Zoey didn’t.
Mira’s voice cut in instead, sharper. “Why did you do that?”
Zoey’s gaze flicked between them, nerves spiking. She could feel the old instinct rising—to ramble, to explain until they gave up pressing. But last night’s sting was too raw. She didn’t trust her words not to be twisted.
So she forced them short. “To show you how serious I am about Huntr/x.”
Her voice tried to hold bravado, but the tremor underneath betrayed her.
Rumi blinked, startled. Shock softened into something almost hopeful. Maybe—just maybe—they weren’t losing Zoey.
Mira’s jaw tightened, but her voice was steady. “Will you be okay with that? We can cancel. I can cancel.” The edges of her tone tried for cold, but concern leaked through anyway.
Zoey froze. Mira’s offer wasn’t nothing. It meant taking the blame herself, shielding Zoey from fallout. Her chest squeezed, the weight of what it meant pressing down.
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
The silence dragged until Rumi stepped into it, voice breaking just a little. “Last night was about the group. But we’re not just the group.” She looked straight at Zoey, eyes glassy but steady. “Zo—you are our little sister...”
The words lodged in Zoey’s throat. She wrestled with the fragile confessions trying to scape from her throat.
Instead, her gaze locked with Rumi’s.
And in that fragile stretch of quiet, both whispered, almost at the same time: “I’m sorry.”
The words collided between them, soft and uneven. Neither was sure what the other was apologizing for. Neither was sure why they were apologizing themselves.
But they said it anyway.
Zoey blinked fast, throat burning. Rumi pressed her lips tight, fighting the tremor there. Mira stood frozen between them, caught in the crossfire of apologies that didn’t quite land.
Zoey shifted her weight, arms hugging tighter. “I didn’t mean to…” She stopped, the words dissolving.
Rumi’s hands clenched at her sides. “Me either.”
Mira’s eyes darted between them, sharp but wounded. “Then why does it feel like all we do is hurt each other?”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed—alive with everything they couldn’t say.
Zoey wanted to tell them about her plan, how she was going to fix this, her punishment. But the thought alone made her stomach turn.
Instead, she sat at the table, fingers brushing the plate Rumi had so carefully prepared. The food smelled sweet, heavy, unbearable.
“I can’t,” she whispered. Not hungry. Not safe.
Rumi sank into the chair across from her, hands folded tight in her lap. Her eyes ached with the urge to reach, but she didn’t.
Mira leaned against the counter again, arms crossing, the mug cooling at her elbow. Her jaw worked, but she didn’t speak.
The kitchen held them like that—three points in a triangle, close enough to touch, too far to bridge.
Zoey traced the rim of her plate, heart pounding. Her candy bag pressed sharp in her pocket.
Her voice shook when she finally broke the silence. “I just don’t want to be the one who ruins it again.”
Rumi’s chair scraped as she leaned closer, her voice fierce despite the quiver. “You don’t ruin us. You never did.”
Mira’s stare burned from across the room, softer now. “You hold more of us together than you think.”
Zoey swallowed hard. She didn’t believe them. Not yet. But the way their voices cracked with the weight of it—that was something she couldn’t ignore.
Her hand trembled against the table edge. “If I were to let you look through my music,” she whispered, “and take anything you want for the group… will that mean something?”
The question landed wrong. Pain leaked through it, twisting the words into something raw and ugly.
Mira’s mouth flattened; Rumi’s nose wrinkled, both of them flinching like the offer itself tasted sour.
Zoey was quick to double down, panic spilling fast. “I know it’ll need twitch—polished—for you—for us. I can do i—”
Mira’s hand pressed steady against her back before she could spiral further. Rumi’s palm found her shoulder almost at the same time, grounding.
“Stop,” Rumi said, her voice breaking. “Your music is yours. We don’t want to steal it. Or destroy it.”
“To answer your question,” Mira’s tone clipped, sharper than she meant, “it would mean we are vultures and you are a tool.” She drew her hand back, steadied herself. “Neither is true.”
Zoey’s throat closed. Relief and shame tangled tight in her chest. Her eyes stung, lashes damp, but she didn’t let the tears fall. They thought she was worth more than that bargain—and yet, she wasn’t sure she believed it.
Rumi’s voice cracked again, soft and pained. “If you want it, Zoey. If you really do… we can’t hold you back.” The words trembled, like it cost her everything to say.
Zoey’s mind clung to it, sharp and dangerous. Can’t. Not won’t. Not don’t want to. Can’t.
The word sank into her like a stone.
The morning passed heavy, silence lodged in the air even as Celine called them down for sparring.
The mats smelled faintly of sweat and disinfectant, light spilling in through narrow windows. Their weapons shimmered into being on command, but the rhythm was off.
Blades met with less force than usual, each strike pulling up short at the last second. Zoey’s swings lagged, her footing loose, eyes unfocused as if she were always a beat behind.
Mira’s lance arced clean but stopped inches from Zoey’s chest. The restraint was sharp enough to sting.
Rumi circled in, saim-geom flashing, but her strikes slowed mid-motion, the edge softened by hesitation. Her eyes flicked to Zoey, every swing a question instead of a challenge.
Celine’s gaze swept across them like steel. She adjusted their stances with clipped taps of her blade, but even she felt the drag of their bodies. They weren’t fighting each other, not really. They were fighting the weight between them.
Zoey’s breath came faster, ragged. She stumbled once, caught herself, forced her shoulders square. But her rhythm didn’t return.
When the session ended, they didn’t linger. Usually they’d stay, Mira trying to stretch with lazy smirks, Rumi dragging Zoey into another round just for fun. And then both pulling Mira in with them. Today, the room emptied quick, the silence following them down the hall.
By afternoon, they sat in the room designated for singing practice. Tall walls, almost empty. Most of it was echo that reflected every flaw too clearly.
Singing came first. Rumi warmed up smooth, her notes sharp with control.
Mira’s voice hit steady, strong, cutting clean through the air. Until it didn’t.
Zoey started low, her voice catching in her throat after a few bars. By the second run her chest burned, breath stumbling out too shallow. She tilted her head back mid-line, throat aching raw.
Celine stopped them.
When they broke for food, Rumi and Mira stayed inside with their containers. Mira had packed one for Zoey but she slipped out before she could even offer, notebook clutched in one hand.
She sat on the studio steps, scribbling into the margins of already crowded pages. Lyrics stacked crooked, letters pressed too hard into the paper. Her foot tapped restless against the tile. The smell of food drifted from inside.
Later, dance practice. The mirrors offered no mercy.
Mira came in late, just by minutes. And casually dropped a tea tumbler next to Zoey without words.
The lyricist eyes followed her as she stretched.
When the music hit Rumi flowed sharp, body cutting beats into the air with precision. Mira danced like the rhythm was hers to command, sharp edges pulling the group into sync.
Zoey stumbled two counts late, arms dragging where they should have flowed. Sweat ran fast down her temples, her balance slipping.
Her vision swam for a moment, dizziness dragging the floor out from under her. She bit down, jaw locking, forcing her body through the motions even when her limbs lagged.
At break, she sat in the corner, ziploc bag pulled from her pocket. She peeled it open slow, the faint plasticky smell of sugar seeping out.
Inside, the lifeline she had carefully prepared last night.
She tore one in half, chewed slow, forced it down. Then another, smaller bite. Eyes closed, focusing on her breathing. Finally she allowed the lukewarm tea to calm her burning throat.
Mira stretched across the room, her eyes sliding to Zoey without moving her head. The shimmer of the bag caught her gaze. Only blue and pink. The realization settled heavy in her chest.
She looked away before Zoey could notice, jaw tightening.
By evening, the city pressed grey and damp around them. Their coats pulled tight against the chill, shoes crunching down the narrow alley toward Doctor Kang’s office.
The building loomed at the end, light spilling from the frosted windows, promise and dread bound together.
Rumi’s breath hitched once, sharp enough to catch Mira’s attention. Her shoulders trembled with something she couldn’t shake.
Without speaking, both Mira and Zoey shifted. Mira’s hand brushed Rumi’s arm, steady. Zoey’s sleeve touched her other side, closer than she’d dared all day.
The three of them walked the rest of the way pressed close, not in rhythm, not perfect—but together.
Just for that minute, everything else could wait.
When they crossed the frame of the clinic, Mira and Rumi froze as if the tiled floor itself had snared them.
The smell hit first—sharp hand sanitizer, faint detergent, and the tang of something sweet-and-stale, maybe an energy drink left half-open on the counter. It was a scent that dragged memories forward without permission.
Last time they had stood here, Zoey had been limp in Rumi’s arms, her skin ice cold, breath shallow, life dangling by threads too fragile to trust.
Rumi’s hand moved before her thoughts did—clamping around Zoey’s forearm, possessive, protective, trembling.
Zoey startled at the grip, muscles jerking like she’d been caught mid-crime. But when she turned, the flinch softened. Because what she saw wasn’t anger. It was fear—etched deep in Rumi’s face, bleeding raw in the way Mira’s eyes darted sharp around the room, as if waiting for ghosts.
Her own stomach twisted, sour climbing into her throat. The antiseptic smell clawed at her nerves, pulling up buried flashes she’d tried to smother—machines beeping, skin gone cold, voices thick with panic. She forced her jaw tight, teeth grinding the memories down.
Mira reached out, hand sliding over Zoey’s head, fingers resting in her hair. Not ruffling, not teasing. Just… grounding.
The weight was enough. Enough to pin them in the present, to stop the past from swallowing the three of them whole.
Coats slipped from shoulders, hung across the backs of chairs. The air was warmer here, too warm.
Mira’s eyes snagged on the dark lines carved across Rumi’s shoulders—marks of her patterns stirring awake after lying dormant for weeks. Two weeks of silence undone by something so stupid, so small. And yet here it was, unraveling her again.
Her glare flicked toward Zoey, instinct sharp, but the expression died when she caught the same look mirrored in Zoey’s eyes. Understanding. Exhaustion. Pain.
And in that second, Mira’s thoughts cracked open. Why had they let it come to this? Why had they let artist egos and pride cut lines between them, as though Zoey’s solo work could ever eclipse the bond they had bled for?
She searched her memory for the reason, but it slipped like smoke. She couldn’t find it anymore.
Because she knew Zoey. Knew her too well.
Zoey—reckless, loyal, fierce.
Zoey—talented, chaotic, alive in ways Mira envied.
Zoey—who didn't let death claim her.
Zoey—who charged headfirst even with disadvantage stacked against her.
Zoey—who lit rooms like she carried her own sun in her chest.
Zoey,—who would never abandon her duties as a hunter.
And Huntr/x was one of those duties.
Their stage, their fight, their home.
But Mira’s heart whispered a prayer she didn’t want to admit, even to herself.
That Zoey wasn’t staying out of duty.
That she was staying out of love.
The door to the side room swung open, and Doctor Kang appeared, a little girl clinging to her coat like a shadow.
The child’s tiny hand tugged at the stethoscope dangling from Kang’s neck, her wide eyes wide and searching, half-curious, half-afraid of being noticed.
Celine moved forward without hesitation. Her voice slipped into that steady register she carried so well—calm, precise, wrapped in quiet authority.
Her posture lowered just slightly, enough to meet the girl at eye level without bowing. Even Ria seemed to soften, her grip loosening on the doctor’s coat as Celine spoke.
With the smallest flick of her gaze—sharp but kind—she signaled for the girls to step in, to keep the child anchored while she followed Doctor Kang through the side door.
But before Zoey or Rumi could react, Ria’s steps pulled her toward Mira, small sneakers squeaking against the floor. It wasn’t choice—it was instinct. Her face lit with an innocent smile that carried memory in it, the kind of smile that only surfaced when safety felt familiar.
Mira dropped low in one fluid motion, knees bending into an easy squat, her arms opening wide like gates. She gave Ria a target, a promise.
The little girl’s steps quickened, and when she reached her, Mira scooped her up in a swift, practiced lift. The motion was protective without even trying, and Ria nestled against her as though no time had passed.
Her curious eyes scanned the room, darting across walls and windows, restless and searching—until they landed on Rumi.
She froze.
Then her small body turned in Mira’s arms, burrowing into her chest, hiding her face. Again.
The sight carved something deep out of Rumi. Again.
Her hands were hers, slim and human. Her skin was warm-toned, mostly unmarked. Her eyes were dull brown, tired but steady. By every measure she was just a girl.
But to Ria’s innocent gaze, none of that mattered. The child still saw something else.
A demon.
A monster.
The corner of Rumi’s mouth twitched upward in a smile that never reached her eyes.
She glanced at Mira, then Zoey, as if to reassure them, and stepped backward until her calves hit the edge of a chair.
She sank into it, posture folding in on itself, head bowed low. Her hands pressed together, knuckles white, as though keeping them locked would keep the hurt inside.
Mira’s eyes tracked the change, sharp as always. She saw the dark lines creep faint and trembling down Rumi’s arms, the cursed patterns reawakening, gaining length with every heartbeat.
Zoey noticed something else—the focus in Rumi’s face, too sharp, too deliberate. Not the distraction of pain, but the pursuit of it. The way she seemed to be forcing herself to feel every burn, every cut of shame. Her punishment, carved from within.
The recognition struck Zoey like a physical blow. The knot in her stomach tightened. She knew it. She knew the weight of turning pain inward when words couldn’t hold it. She knew what it was to live as her own executioner.
She moved before she thought. Her knees hit the floor, the sound muted by the clinic tiles. She reached forward and took Rumi’s hands in both of hers, prying them apart, holding them tight so they couldn’t press against each other anymore.
“Look at me,” Zoey whispered, breath shaking.
Rumi resisted, her head shaking once, her eyes fixed down.
Zoey tightened her grip, not letting go. She leaned forward until her forehead almost touched Rumi’s, her voice low but fierce. “No. Not like this. Not alone.”
At last, Rumi’s gaze lifted. Brown eyes, raw and shimmering, clashed with Zoey’s.
Zoey held her there. Refused to let her drown in silence.
Unwilling to let her live through her own self-flagellation, unwilling to let her carry shame like a wound she had to cut open herself. Zoey knew the taste of that too well to stand by and watch it devour someone she loved.
The clinic hummed faint with fluorescent lights. Ria shifted in Mira’s arms, peeking out again, her small gaze flicking between them with cautious curiosity.
For a breathless moment, the four of them sat suspended—Mira cradling Ria close, Rumi breaking under Zoey’s stubborn grip, Zoey steadying her with everything she had left.
Not whole.
Not healed.
But together.
Would that be enough?
Notes:
I side quested form my map.
But once I started writing this I couldn't stop.
💙
Chapter 39: Untouchable
Summary:
One fan lifted a phone, angling it, his voice light. “Say victory?”
“Victory!” Zoey laughed, flashing the peace sign, leaning ever so slightly toward the warmth beside her.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The changing room smelled faintly of fabric softener and face powder. Warm lights glowed from the mirrors, casting a golden haze over racks of pressed outfits and the scatter of makeup kits across the counters.
Jackets hung like sleeping birds, sequins winking when they caught the light. The muffled hum of fans outside drifted through the walls, distant enough to feel unreal.
For the first time, Rumi stepped into this space with them. Not as the leader arriving last, not as someone hovering on the periphery, but shoulder-to-shoulder with Mira and Zoey. She hadn’t expected it to feel so… normal. Like slipping into a circle she had always belonged to. Her chest eased without permission.
Mira was already perched on the counter, legs swinging, eyeliner pencil balanced between two fingers like a blade. She smirked at her own reflection before turning it on Zoey. “Don’t move, troublemaker,” she muttered, leaning forward to brush a stray streak of glitter off Zoey’s cheek.
Zoey wrinkled her nose but stayed still, arms crossed too tight across her hoodie. “You’re just jealous it looks better on me.”
Mira chuckled, low and warm. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Rumi stood off to the side, tugging her jacket off its hanger, watching them. Watching this. Mira’s sharp edges blunted into affection, Zoey’s stiffness softening into banter. It was the kind of trust you didn’t earn with titles or schedules. It was lived-in. And Rumi found herself aching with how much she wanted to protect it.
Zoey turned toward her, tilting her chin up in a small, unspoken request. “Collar’s crooked,” Rumi murmured, stepping forward. Her fingers brushed the fabric at Zoey’s throat, smoothing it flat. The girl’s pulse fluttered under her touch—fast, nervous—but Zoey didn’t pull back.
“Thanks,” Zoey whispered. Her voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the room, but it held weight.
For once, Rumi didn’t feel like the leader. She wasn’t the protector. She was just Rumi, fixing a collar, close enough to feel Zoey’s breath tickle her wrist.
The mirrors reflected them back—three figures bunched together, colors clashing but spirits aligned. A small fortress of their own.
Mira hopped off the counter and reached for a hairbrush. “Your hair’s a disaster,” she told Zoey, tugging at the tangles without waiting for permission.
“Ow—be gentle!” Zoey swatted half-heartedly.
“Gentle doesn’t work on you.” Mira smirked, but her hand slowed anyway, careful in the strokes.
Zoey’s lips curved, reluctant at first, then brighter. She didn’t laugh often enough, Rumi thought. The sound of it now felt like sunlight.
The room settled into an easy rhythm: Mira humming under her breath, Zoey tapping her knee against the floor in time, Rumi folding her jacket across the chair and allowing herself to just be. No rehearsed lines. No public mask. Just the three of them in golden light, untouchable.
A knock came at the door, quick and sharp, breaking the spell for a breath. Bobby's voice filtered in, muffled by the wood. “Reminder: some special guests signed up for the photo line. Heads up, all right?”
Zoey blinked. Mira’s eyes flicked toward the door, sharp but unreadable.
“Special guests?” Rumi echoed, brows furrowing.
“Yeah, nothing major,” the staffer replied through the door. “VIPs. Extra security’s got them covered. See you in 10. Love you girls!” Then footsteps retreated down the hall.
The silence that followed stretched. Mira set the brush down with a soft clack, her smirk slipping.
Zoey tried to shrug it off, shoulders tight. Her hand reached for her pocket. But stopped mid way. “Probably some exec’s kids.”
But Rumi caught the flicker in Mira’s eyes—the way her gaze lingered on Zoey for a beat too long. Protective. Calculating.
Then Mira shook it off, lips quirking again as she looked at Zoey’s hair. “Still crooked,” she muttered, tugging another lock into place.
Zoey rolled her eyes, but the warmth lingered.
Rumi sat down beside them, close enough their knees brushed. The hum of fans outside rose faint, like a tide pressing against the walls. But in here, the world felt far away.
Zoey leaned back against the chair, eyes fluttering closed for just a second. Safe enough to drop her guard.
Rumi glanced at Mira. Mira met her gaze in the mirror. Neither spoke, but the thought moved between them like current: let her breathe. Let her have this.
Although Zoey's mind was treading in dangerous territory. Her head felt light, her body weak, all tied with dizziness. She bit her lip trying to decide if she should reach for her lifeline or not. She turned arround just enough so the other's couldn't see and pull the bag out, she looked at it and her stomach twisted even tighter.
Four worms. Thats all she had left. The bag went back into her hidding spot.
She had to make them count.
Outside, voices shouted, louder now, chanting names. The sound rattled faintly in the walls, a reminder of the crowd waiting.
But the changing room held. Warm. Intimate. Loyal.
For this moment, they were untouchable.
And none of them wanted to be the first to break it.
______
The stage lights hit first—bright enough to blur the edges of the world, hot enough to press sweat from skin before the first step past the curtain.
The crowd surged in sound, a roar of voices layered with cheers, camera shutters, the rhythmic chant of names. A living tide, all of it aimed at them.
Zoey’s shoulders went tight. Her steps slowed as the glare of the lights washed over her. Without thinking her hand found the bag in her pocket and a single gummy was placed in her mouth.
Rumi felt it instantly. Without breaking stride, she brushed her fingers against Zoey’s wrist, just enough pressure to remind her—here, not alone.
Zoey’s pulse jumped under her skin. Her gaze flicked sideways, and for the briefest second, she met Rumi’s steady eyes. She chew slowly, trembling. And after she finally allowed herself to swallow, the corner of her lips twitched, an almost-smile.
Mira walked ahead of them, her stride easy, confident. She lifted one hand in a lazy wave toward the crowd, smirk tugging at her mouth.
“Don’t trip, maknae,” she tossed over her shoulder to Zoey, her voice pitched just loud enough to carry to the mics.
The crowd laughed and cheered at the tease. Zoey blinked, startled, then rolled her eyes, heat rising to her cheeks. The edge in her chest eased.
They lined up at center stage, the backdrop pulsing with their logo, the host’s voice booming through the sound system.
“Huntr/x!”
The chant rolled through the hall, the wave of sound pressing against their chests like a second heartbeat.
Rumi bowed first, smooth and composed. Mira followed with a playful tilt of her head. Zoey’s bow was a half-second late, but the crowd didn’t notice. They screamed louder instead, swept up in the trio’s presence.
The host started them with questions—trivia, playful banter. “Who’s the messiest in the changing room?”
Zoey startled, glancing toward Mira. Mira raised an eyebrow, smirk widening.
“Zoey,” she said flatly into the mic. “Without contest.”
The fans erupted, some chanting Zoey’s name in mock defense, others laughing.
Zoey’s mouth fell open. “That’s not fair! I didn’t even unpack—”
Her protest cut off when Mira reached out and patted her hair flat with mock pity. The audience screamed.
Zoey tried to glare, but laughter bubbled out instead, soft and unguarded.
Rumi watched them, the edges of her lips softening. She kept her mic raised, chiming in lightly, “To be fair, Mira leaves glitter everywhere.”
The fans roared again, some clapping, some waving glittered banners.
Mira shrugged, unapologetic. “At least mine sparkles.”
The banter rolled easy, natural. And Zoey’s laugh this time rang clear, not forced.
The host moved them to games. Quick dares, fast-fire trivia about each other. “Rumi, what’s Zoey’s favorite comfort snack?”
Rumi’s eyes flickered sideways. She hesitated for only a beat before answering softly, “Gummy worms.”
The fans cheered. Zoey blinked, her throat tight for a second. She opened her mouth, but the noise swallowed her words. Still, her glance toward Rumi carried weight.
Next, a playful dare. Mira was told to imitate Zoey’s singing style. She took the mic, exaggerated every breath, every wide-eyed gesture, dropped low in a fluid motion and...
"YallListenUpImTheSickestRippinFlowFastAsLightnin
GotMyRhymesGlisteningLikeGlitterInTheSun
ImTheQueenOfTheApeSceneImOnThe MicImHavingFun
GotMyStackOnTwistImSpittinBarsLikeCandyImDone
ImFastImFierceImFlossinAllDayErryday
YeeeaaahhhhGotMyGlitterFlowOnPointToday"
She finished with Zoey's trademark fake camera kick.
Zoey’s face went red. She tried to shove Mira’s shoulder, but Mira dodged with a laugh.
The fans went wild. Phones shot up, recording every second.
Zoey’s lips pressed together, but her laughter slipped through, sharp and bright. It felt… good. Like breathing in sunlight.
Rumi caught that sound and let out a breath of her own. It loosened something in her chest that had been tight for days.
The session rolled on—short answers, playful jabs, fans eating up every small moment between them. The three of them moved like they’d done this forever: Mira sharp, Zoey reactive, Rumi grounding.
Zoey relaxed further each minute, her shoulders loosening, her smile no longer forced. She even leaned into Mira’s teasing once, firing back with a sarcastic, “At least I can sing on key.”
The fans screamed, stamping their feet at the boldness. Mira clutched her chest in mock offense, but the spark in her eyes told the truth—she was proud.
Rumi smiled quietly at both of them. Watching Zoey stand taller here, even if only in moments, filled her with something warm.
But warmth didn’t hold forever.
Somewhere in the third row, a pair of eyes locked onto Zoey. Not wide with excitement like the rest, not sparkling with adoration. Cold. Focused. Too still.
Mira caught it first. Her smirk faltered a fraction, her head tilting as if adjusting her line of sight.
Her gaze lingered.
Rumi noticed next, following Mira’s focus. Her spine straightened, her hand tightening imperceptibly around the mic.
Zoey didn’t notice. She was laughing again, glancing down at the cue cards the host held out, completely unaware of the weight burning from the crowd.
The cheers swallowed everything, but Mira and Rumi carried it like a warning bell.
That pair of eyes.
Too long.
Too sharp.
Mira forced her mouth back into a smirk, but her gaze didn’t let go.
Rumi shifted subtly closer to Zoey, her body angled just slightly between her and the crowd.
The game went on, laughter echoing, lights flaring bright—but beneath it, danger threaded through the air. Quiet. Patient. Waiting.
_________
Bobby moved like clockwork, practiced efficiency leadingbthe handlers cutting the stage warmth into sharper lines.
“Alright girls! Time for photos. Separate booths.”
Zoey’s heart stuttered. Separate.
Rumi gave her a reassuring glance, small but steady, before being guided toward the far right line of fans. Mira followed another handler to the left line, her stride casual but her eyes already flicking back once, just to check.
Zoey was nudged forward into the middle booth. Alone.
The room shifted when they split. The laughter they’d shared on stage, the teasing, even Rumi’s grounding touches—it all felt like it drained away in a single moment.
Zoey stood stiff behind the rope, the glossy backdrop towering behind her. The crowd noise dulled here, replaced by the steady rhythm of camera clicks and handlers ushering fans forward.
Her lips lifted into the smile she’d practiced, the one that looked effortless under lights. But her jaw ached with the hold.
“Hi—thank you for coming.” Her voice rang bright, but her chest was tight.
The first fans were easy—schoolgirls giggling, holding out gifts wrapped in shiny paper. She posed, tilted her head, flashed her grin. The camera snapped.
She bowed, waved them off, inhaled sharp, and pasted the smile back again.
Another pair came up. Another picture. Another thank-you.
Her cheeks started to tremble. Her legs threatened to give. She pressed her tongue against her molars to stop it, the way she’d been taught. Keep the mask smooth. Keep the fans happy.
But every so often, her eyes flicked sideways—toward the line where Rumi stood, toward the far corner where Mira posed with a fan clinging to her arm.
She wanted their eyes on her. Wanted proof she wasn’t alone. She meet Bobby eyes on her once, his mouth shaped a silent " are you okay?" His hands shapping a question and a thumbs up in one motion. Zoey gave a small nod.
The handler waved forward the next group.
Two young men, too well-dressed, crisp shirts and perfect smiles, moving through the line like shadows in daylight. No one batted an eye. They looked ordinary, harmless, charming.
Zoey didn’t think twice at first—lots of fans came in business casual attire, some treasured this pictures or maybe they'd just left work. She smiled, tilting her chin, holding her hands ready to pose.
But their pace was wrong. Too steady. Too confident.
They didn’t hesitate, didn’t fumble with phones or bags like most fans did. They didn’t even glance at the handlers. They just walked—straight.
Zoey’s smile tightened, nerves prickling. She adjusted her stance, shifting her weight back without realizing it. Her mouth went dry but the soft crinkle under her jacket oferred reasurance.
Breath Zoey, you will be okay.
The air thickened around her. Something about the way they carried themselves—like they weren’t here to ask. They were here to take.
Across the booths, Mira had just finished her photo with a fan. She tilted her head casually, scanning the crowd as she always did, sharp eyes flicking instinctively.
That’s when she saw them.
Not the pace. Not the confidence. The path. Unbroken. Laser-straight toward Zoey.
Her breath hitched once, but her face stayed smooth. She laughed with the fan beside her, waved them off. Then her gaze locked again.
Her body shifted without thinking—posture straightening, shoulders angling as if to step forward. Every line of her said alert.
Rumi noticed the change before she saw the reason. Mira’s whole body had gone taut, like a wire pulled to snapping.
She followed Mira’s line of sight.
Her chest dropped.
The two figures were almost at Zoey’s rope now, handlers oblivious, fans too loud to notice the difference.
Zoey bowed her head slightly, forcing her practiced grin. Her nerves screamed, but she didn’t falter. Not yet.
But Rumi’s hands curled at her sides, nails digging crescent moons into her palms. Her weight shifted forward, every instinct screaming to move.
Her eyes stayed locked on Zoey, her whole body wound like a spring.
Mira’s smirk was gone entirely now. Her gaze tracked the figures without blinking, ready for the moment the disguise slipped.
And in the middle booth, Zoey’s smile cracked just slightly, the smallest tremor running down her jawline.
She didn’t know why yet. But she could feel it too.
Something was wrong.
Zoey shifted into place as the staff waved the next fans forward. She stood near the backdrop, her idol smile practiced, but her chest still fluttering with nerves.
Twins stepped in smoothly, one on either side. Their proximity was immediate, deliberate. Hands brushed side, arm settling just above her waist.—not gripping, not improper, just guiding. Too close. Too certain and friendly enough to fool everyone else
Zoey stiffened, but the cameras were waiting. She let them tilt her posture, her body nudged into place like she was a doll being posed.
Then one leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. The whisper came low, pitched just enough for her to catch:
“Still standing after all that? Impressive.”
The other followed, voice just as soft, laced with a mock familiarity that made her stomach twist.
“Brave little miracle.”
Her smile wavered, catching at the edges. It stayed plastered on her face, but her lungs locked. She forced her breath steady, lips stretched too tight. Eyes focused on the cameras.
Just breathe, Zoey. They’re just fans. They have to be.
As one twin adjusted his sleeve, fabric slid up just a fraction. Black lines curved across pale skin—sharp, deliberate, unmistakable. The patterns.
The other leaned in closer, and when he brushed his cuff back, the same marks flashed, curling dark like a brand against flesh.
Across the room, Mira froze mid-motion. Her eyes narrowed, disbelief giving way to a sharp, violent clarity.
Rumi’s breath caught, patterns sparking faint under her skin as recognition set in.
Their gazes collided across the crowd—shock sparking into rage. A silent, electric message crackled between them, wordless but certain.
It’s them.
The twins looked up at the same moment, as though they felt the weight of that recognition. Their smiles didn’t falter. Eyes slid across Mira, then Rumi, slow and deliberate.
Predators acknowledging predators.
For a heartbeat, the entire hall seemed to thin to that locked triangle of gazes—Zoey caught at the center, smiling stiffly for the cameras, while danger circled invisible around her.
One twin lifted a phone, angling it, his voice light. “Say victory?”
“Victory!” Zoey forced a laugh, flashing the peace sign, leaning ever so slightly toward the warmth beside her.
Then the touch came.
The other twin’s hand slid casually up Zoey’s waist, dragging across her skin, pressing directly over the wound hidden beneath her shirt. The motion looked harmless to anyone watching—an easy pose, a friendly adjustment.
But Zoey flinched. Hard.
Pain spiked bright through her chest, flashing across her face before she bit it back. She clenched her hands into fists, nails carving crescents into her palms, forcing the smile to stay, her stomach hollow, candy-sweet aftertaste clinging to her tongue.
I made it through before. I can make it through again.
She would not break here. Not in front of them. Not in front of her fans.
But Rumi saw the flicker of pain. Saw the hand that had caused it. And she snapped.
Her booth's chain fell down, a sharp crack against the floor, and she strode forward without hesitation.
Cameras clicked, voices murmured—but she didn’t care. Didn’t even see them.
Her hand clamped around Zoey’s arm, pulling her free, protective to the point of violence.
“That’s enough,” she said, her voice low, flat, iron.
The twin’s hand fell away, his expression unchanged. The smile stayed soft, polite, but his eyes glimmered sharp with the satisfaction of the wound pressed.
Zoey blinked between them, dazed, her arm throbbing under Rumi’s grip.
Across the room, Mira forced herself to stay rooted. Measuring the situation, similing for the phone camera up front. But her gaze was focused on the Twins.
Cold. Cutting. Deadly.
A warning.
And a promise.
The first twin tilted his head at Rumi, hand retreating as though it had never strayed. His smile was soft, practiced, unshaken.
“Ah, forgive me. Old habits. I sometimes forget how fragile humans can be.”
The words dripped like honey, but the sting beneath was sharp, deliberate.
The second lowered his phone, bowing slightly with the same gentle ease.
“And thank you for this memory. We will treasure it forever.”
His eyes lingered too long on Rumi, the gaze featherlight but barbed, like a blade sliding just under skin.
Bobby stepped in before the silence could rot further.
His frame cut between the twins and the girls, precise, practiced. He angled his shoulders just so, shielding cameras from catching the tension. His voice was firm, polite—but his jaw flexed hard enough to show he meant it.
“If you’ll excuse us. My girls have a long line waiting, and every fan deserves their time.”
His hand gestured toward the exit, smooth but final. It wasn’t a request.
Even if he didn’t understand what was wrong, Bobby understood enough: his girls were uncomfortable. That was enough to act.
Mira finally approached the group. Every step firm, steady, messured. Her eyes burning holes through the twins. "You are excused."
Zoey blinked, caught between them all, the air too thick to breathe. Her chest rose sharp, shallow. She couldn’t read what was happening, only felt the weight of it pressing her smaller.
The look in Rumi’s eyes, the iron in Mira’s voice, Bobby stepping in like a shield—it all swirled until her skin prickled with embarrassment.
Her throat bobbed. She pressed her palms tight, nails biting her skin.
There she was again. Ruining it. Making trouble.
“It’s fine, really—” The words slipped out too fast, too small, a flimsy thread against the storm.
Rumi’s patterns pulsed sharper unfer her jacket, the glow flickering with her breath. “No. It isn't.”
Mira’s voice cut clean through.
“No more pictures.”
She stepped forward, her eyes already locked on Bobby. Her tone was steel, sharp and cold. “We’re done here.”
Bobby hesitated, frowning, his gaze flicking to the line of waiting fans. “Mira, they just—”
“No.” Mira’s tone brooked no argument. Her chest rose once, controlled, her next words measured like a blade edge. “We’ll finish with autographs. At a table. Together.”
A compromise that was not really a compromise.
The twins exchanged a glance, movements mirrored. Perfectly synchronized. Their bow was shallow, their voices chiming soft, almost reverent.
“Of course. We understand. Legends must have their rest.”
But then, a double edge slipped free.
One smiled wider, voice honey-sweet: “You carry so much already. It must be exhausting.”
The other followed, breath warm, “We wouldn’t want you to break.”
And as they stepped back, the older twin’s eyes flicked briefly toward Mira. His voice lowered, pitched so only she caught it:
“You can’t protect her forever.”
The younger’s smile curved sharper, a whisper like silk.
“Even crows can lose their wings.”
For one frozen second, Mira’s pulse spiked. The crowd roared around them, oblivious.
She tilted her head, lips curving into a smirk that didn’t touch her eyes. Her voice slid low, precise, made for performance but meant for blood.
“Funny,” she said smoothly, “the last thing I heard from pests was how fast they fall when light hits them.”
Her smirk lingered, sharp enough to cut. A promise tucked inside.
The twins bowed again, flawless, their smiles unmarred.
They turned, retreating into the crowd with the ease of men who had never been caught at all.
Zoey’s arm trembled under Rumi’s grip, her face pale. Her other hand clutched her sleeve like it could anchor her. Her smile was gone, lips pressed tight, eyes wide with confusion.
Rumi stayed flush against her side, body a shield, her patterns flickering faint beneath her jacket. Fury bled through her silence.
Mira forced her posture stiff, her smirk still on her mouth but her eyes sharp and calculating, never leaving the path the twins had taken.
And Bobby—Bobby hovered, his shoulders squared, jaw still set. His hand brushed briefly against Zoey’s back, protective without drawing attention, his presence steady like a wall.
Seconds after the door closed behind them, the air shifted back to its rhythm—laughter, camera flashes, the low hum of chatter.
To the crowd, the twins had been nothing more than polite admirers. Grateful citizens, bowing with soft smiles, touched to meet their idols.
But to Mira and Rumi, every word had carried a blade.
Zoey’s eyes darted between them, confusion knitting her brow. “Wait—what’s wrong?”
Rumi’s grip didn’t ease. Her hand stayed tight on Zoey’s arm, her gaze locked on the retreating figures. She tracked the sway of their shoulders, the careful precision in every step.
Nothing in their movements betrayed the truth.
That was the worst part.
“They were nice,” Zoey murmured, voice uncertain, almost pleading.
Under Rumi’s jacket, her patterns flickered faint, pulsing against Zoey’s arm like a warning. Her reply came low, tight, like iron pulled thin.
“No. They weren’t.”
Mira dragged in a breath through her nose, steadying the storm clawing at her chest. To Bobby, to Zoey, to anyone watching—it had been nothing. A picture. A thank you. Words dipped in sugar.
But Mira had seen. The hand lingering too long. The flicker of eyes, not at Zoey’s smile but at the scar hidden beneath fabric.
He knew.
Her jaw flexed as she forced her voice even. “Bobby. I said no more.”
Bobby’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue. His hands lifted in surrender, muttering under his breath as he turned to redirect the waiting line.
The hall carried on as if nothing had happened. Fans laughing. Cameras flashing. The illusion of normal.
But Mira and Rumi’s blood boiled hot beneath the skin.
The twins had left no mark. No evidence. Just their smiles—careful, disarming—and words so perfectly chosen they could mean nothing. Or everything.
Rumi leaned closer, her voice breaking low into Zoey’s ear. “Don’t ever let them touch you again.”
Zoey blinked, unsettled, her throat tight. “Rumi, they were just—”
“They weren’t.”
The finality in Rumi’s voice landed like a blade.
Zoey’s confusion deepened. She turned toward Mira, searching for explanation. But Mira’s gaze was still nailed to the door, her eyes hard as glass.
“They don’t get another chance,” Mira said, quiet but iron-clad.
Zoey’s breath caught. The air felt colder suddenly, pressing tight in her chest. She didn’t understand, not fully, but something in their voices told her this wasn’t about a picture. Not at all.
Polite smiles. Gentle words. No cruelty on the surface. And yet, the Sajas had managed to leave Mira and Rumi—the most powerful duo of hunters—looking and feeling like prey already bleeding.
Mira exhaled slowly, her voice forced calm as she shifted her eyes to Zoey. “Stay close. No arguments.”
Zoey nodded, the sharpness in Mira’s tone leaving no room for protest.
Rumi still hadn’t let go.
They followed Bobby’s lead toward the signing table, the illusion of normalcy stitched back over them. Pens ready. Smiles waiting. Fans eager.
But out there, somewhere beyond the doors, the twins were still smiling.
Handlers guided them toward the autograph tables. Pens placed, banners behind them, fans ushered forward with gleaming eyes and gifts clutched tight.
The girls smiled. Their hands moved. Signatures flowed. To the crowd, nothing had changed.
But under the stage lights, their faces were masks. Their eyes flicked to doors, to shadows, to each other.
The hall buzzed with laughter, conversation, and cameras.
And none of them were really there.
_______________
Backstage smelled of hairspray and sweat, the kind that clung to velvet curtains and mirrored walls no matter how many times the space was aired out.
Rumi’s hand was iron around Zoey’s wrist, almost dragging her down the narrow corridor. Zoey stumbled once, shoulder brushing the wall, but Rumi didn’t loosen her grip. She couldn’t. Not yet.
Mira shadowed them a step behind, her stride clipped, gaze sharp over her shoulder as if she expected the twins to follow them straight through the staff-only doors.
The camerino door slammed shut behind them.
Inside, the fluorescent light buzzed faintly, too harsh against the pale walls. Costumes hung limp on their racks. The room was supposed to feel safe. Instead, the air carried static, too tight, too hot, like it hadn’t been aired in weeks.
On the far wall, the timer glowed in unforgiving red digits.
25:00
Twenty-five minutes until the live interview.
The silence that filled the space wasn’t peace. It was aftermath. Adrenaline still spiked in their veins, pounding under their skin. Fear lingered, sour on their tongues, like smoke that refused to clear.
Zoey sat first, hard into the couch, her arms tight around herself. She pressed her palms flat to her knees, knuckles white, trying to hold still.
Rumi didn’t sit. She stood anchored by the door, as though her body alone could barricade it. Her breathing came fast, too fast, her patterns faintly glowing through the thin fabric of her sleeve.
Mira paced. One end of the room to the other, her steps sharp, controlled, her face carved into steel. But her hands flexed at her sides, restless, as if her weapon should’ve been there.
The timer ticked down. 24:38
It was Mira who broke the silence. She stopped mid-stride, facing the other two, her voice stripped raw.
“Those were the twins.”
The words dropped heavy. Not accusation. Not shock. Just truth, solid and immovable.
Zoey’s stomach flipped. The floor tilted beneath her, heat rushing up her throat. Her lips parted but no sound came.
Rumi’s jaw clenched, her eyes fixed on Zoey like she could shield her by staring hard enough.
The realization hit Zoey all at once, too fast to hold. The whispers. The nudging. The hand on her waist.
Her chest heaved, breath breaking uneven. Then she lurched forward, knees folding, body bent over the trash can.
The sound tore through the silence. Harsh, guttural. Her body rejecting the weight of it all.
Mira and Rumi both jolted toward her at the same time—two shadows, protective, desperate—but Zoey’s hand snapped up, palm open, holding them back without even looking.
“Don’t,” she rasped between breaths. Her shoulders shook, but she forced them away.
Her hand fumbled for the nearest water bottle. She twisted the cap, tilted it back hard. The liquid sloshed against her lips, down her chin, as she rinsed, gargled, spat into the trash can.
Her hand shook as she lowered the bottle, the plastic crinkling under her grip.
Mira froze. Her chest tightened with something sharp, memory cutting through the moment.
She had seen Zoey do this before.
Not here.
Not like this.
But the motion—the water, the flush, the spit—etched too familiar.
And the recognition burned.
23:57
Notes:
This scene was one of the first things I wrote for this fic and gosh it feels good to finally put it out here.
Hope you enjoyed it.
Chapter 40: Admission
Notes:
Bullying is a constant topic here.
not seen but discussed.Friendly reminder that our girl needs to open up to heal.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
23:15 Minutes Before Interview
The camerino’s air pressed down, stale under the fluorescent buzz.
Zoey’s voice cracked through the stale air.
“Mira, Rumi—you knew who they were, didn’t you?”
She backed away from the trashcan, slumping onto the couch like her body couldn’t hold itself up anymore. Her eyes never touched theirs, fixed instead on the far wall, the kind of stare meant to cage a storm before it broke loose.
Rumi and Mira were a statues, carved sharp between guilt and rage.
"I —" Rumi's attempt to stich an answer was interrupted by Zoey's laugh.
The laugh Zoey forced out was jagged, ugly. “God. And you didn’t tell me. They put their hands on me, and I smiled for the damn camera.” Her voice carried pain, humiliation, and something that felt dangerously close to betrayal.
Rumi’s hands curled into fists. “Zo—”
“Don’t.” Zoey snapped, shaking her head. “Don’t baby me. I’m fine.” The anger in her voice was thin glass—too clear, too ready to shatter.
Then her brain betrayed her. Replaying it. Their appearances, their voices, the stench of their cologne. The way her body had been moved like a doll. The whispers, honey over knives—
Zoey gagged. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth. Her whole frame shook as she tried to force the memory back down, but her eyes stayed screwed shut. Too tightly. Too desperate.
Finally, Zoey muttered, “They touched my scar.”
Her voice cracked on scar, and the room seemed to shrink.
Zoey’s chest rose too fast, too sharp. Her hands clenched the couch too tight. The twins’ touch hadn’t just brushed her wound—it had ripped something open inside her.
She wasn’t here anymore.
She was back in the hospital—Mira and Rumi slipping out of the room, voices lowered, keeping secrets she wasn’t allowed to hear. Machines forced her body to stay alive when her mind wanted to let go.
She was back in the street, bleeding out in Rumi’s arms, claws tearing through her ribs. Back in the shadow of Mira and Rumi’s perfect momentum, just an afterthought. Back clinging to Rumi when her own mind tried to take her away.
Back leaping into fire beside them. Back failing to save a whole train of people. Back watching the media ask if she was ever needed in Huntr/x at all.
Back biting down on pain, just to earn a place as a Hunter.
Back in a locker, praying for escape. Back filling notebook after notebook, clinging to the hope that one line—just one—might be enough to prove that she was worth something.
Her stomach churned.
“Say thank you.”
The words cut sharper than anything else.
“Say thank you, or we’ll make you.”
Her voice had shaken, brittle and small.
“Thank you.”
The echo of it still made her sick.
The burn in her chest never faded. Years later, it roared back—when the twins’ taunts folded seamlessly into theirs.
“No—” Zoey rasped, clutching at her pocket.
Plastic crackled. Her hands tore at the gummy bag, frantic. It split too fast. Three worms spilled across the linoleum.
She dropped instantly, knees smacking the floor, fingers clawing them up like oxygen.
“Zoey—” Rumi’s voice broke as she lunged forward.
But Zoey was faster. She shoved one into her mouth, jaw trembling as she chewed slow, painfully slow, each bite a lifeline.
Her shoulders shook, tears streaking down her face. “Don’t—don’t take them—”
Mira crouched instantly, hand darting to Zoey’s wrist. “Zoey, stop. It’s not—”
Zoey yanked back, whole body jerking. “No! Please!” Her voice cracked raw, shattering the room. “I need them, I need—”
Her knees scraped as she twisted, clutching the candy against her chest like they might rip it away.
Rumi froze, eyes wide. She had never heard Zoey’s voice like this. Not nervous, not shy—begging.
“Zoey—”
But Zoey was gone. Her mind spiraled. Hands in her hair again. Fabric tearing. Forced smiles. Their laughter laced with the twins’ soft politeness.
She sobbed, rocking, shaking so violently the worms nearly fell again. “Please. Please. Don’t—don’t—”
Her teeth sank into another gummy. Chew. Swallow. The sugar was a thread to now, when everything else blurred.
Mira’s hands hovered—comfort or fight, she didn’t know. Rumi crouched, patterns flickering faint under her jacket, helplessness bleeding through.
They both tried to hold her at once. Zoey clawed weakly at their sleeves, resisting even that. Her words splintered in gasps.
“They made me—said it was better—said it was helping—” Her voice cracked, collapsed. “And I—thanked them.”
Zoey’s words hung in the air like shattered glass.
No one moved. No one breathed.
The room itself seemed to recoil, as if even the walls couldn’t hold what she had just confessed.
Mira’s throat closed. Rumi’s jaw set, eyes burning.
Zoey’s sobs tore her apart, raw and jagged. She bit down on the last gummy like it was the only thing keeping her breathing.
And then—like a film reel skipping—the bullies’ laughter overlapped with the twins’ smiles, syncing into one.
Her whole body stilled. The sugar turned to ash down her throat.
Her eyes blinked open, wet, dazed. She was here again.
Silence swelled in the room.
The timer ticked loud.
15:20
Zoey curled forward on the ground, sleeve damp against her mouth. The sour tang clung to her tongue. Her hands shook around the empty bag, crinkling it like she could squeeze more out.
Rumi’s breathing was ragged at the door, chest rising like she’d sprinted.
Mira’s pacing carved sharp lines across the floor. “We’re calling it off. Cancel. She can’t go out there like this.”
“No.” Rumi’s voice was flat, iron. “We can’t pull the plug. Not now.”
Mira spun, eyes blazing. “She’s barely breathing—”
“Canceling makes it worse,” Rumi snapped. “The twins will smell it. The fans will see it. It’ll break her twice.”
Their voices clashed like blades.
Zoey’s ears rang. She caught fragments—“cancel,” “can’t,” “worse.”
Her stomach dropped hollow.
They were done.
They were done with her.
Her throat cracked, voice desperate and small:
“Please… don’t drop me.”
Both froze.
Zoey shook her head hard, tears spilling fast. “I’ll try harder. I swear. Just don’t—don’t throw me away. I can’t—”
Mira crouched instantly, her voice urgent, rougher than she meant. “Zoey. Stop. We’re not dropping you.”
“Yes, you are!” Zoey shot back, voice sharp with panic. “I know what I am—dead weight. A lottery ticket winner. You let me stand here ‘cause it makes you look good.” She hiccuped, clutching her empty hands. “My family’s right—I don’t belong. And you—” her voice cracked, small and breaking—“you just let me pretend to be an idol.”
“Zoey, that’s not—” Rumi stepped forward, words tumbling fast. “You’re not dead weight. You’re part of this. You’ve always been—”
Zoey shook her head violently, cutting her off. “No. No. You don’t get it! You don’t understand!”
Her chest heaved, words spilling raw now, unstoppable.
“The gummies—it’s all I had. They took everything from me. My notebooks, my board, even food. They made me eat what I hated. They laughed while I swallowed it. And I said thank you—thank you—just so they’d stop.”
Her hands clawed at her arms, nails dragging crescents into her skin.
Rumi dropped to her knees, reaching for her wrists. “Zoey, no—hey, listen to me. That was then, this is now. Who's them? We’re not them.”
Zoey flinched back, her voice rising, ragged. “But it feels the same! Every time. They broke me down until I couldn’t tell what was me anymore. And I can’t stop eating these stupid worms because it’s the only thing that’s mine. The only thing I can hold. If I don’t have them, I—”
Her voice broke completely.
A sob tore through Zoey.
The Leader’s gaze fell upon Zoey's hands, and for a moment, she forgot about everything else.
The lyricist fingers trembled erratically against her own skin. Rumi’s chest burnerd with the recognition of raw trauma beneath Zoey's usual bravado.
Mira reached out, her hands hovering uselessly before curling into fists. “Zoey… you don’t have to—” She cut herself off, chest seizing. Her usual sharpness sounded useless here, brittle against Zoey’s shaking.
Rumi tried again, gentler this time, her voice almost pleading. “You’re not pretending. You’re here. With us. That’s real. Don’t you see that?”
Zoey’s laughter came out hollow, choked through tears. “Real? You don’t get it. I’ll never be real. I’m just—broken. And you’re both stuck carrying me.”
Her shoulders shook harder, every word digging deeper into herself.
“I’m nothing. But I can’t stop—I can’t stop trying because if I stop, then it proves them right. That I was never enough. That I don’t belong anywhere. Not even here.”
Her hands dropped limp into her lap, her body trembling like it might collapse in on itself.
Mira and Rumi were both frozen. Their mouths parted, but no words came. Everything they wanted to argue—every reassurance, every promise—collapsed under the sheer weight of Zoey’s confession.
They looked gutted. Hollowed out by truths they had never been allowed to see until now.
The room was thick with silence, broken only by Zoey’s ragged breathing.
And slowly, Zoey’s sobs quieted. Not because the pain was gone—because she realized what she’d done. What she’d said.
Her eyes widened, panic flickering as she looked at their faces. Her voice shrank to a whisper.
“I said too much.”
Her sleeve dragged across her mouth, smearing tears. She curled in tighter, as if she could fold herself small enough to vanish.
Her words still hung in the air, jagged and bleeding, but the room had gone still.
Zoey’s breathing rasped loud against the silence. Each inhale was shaky, uneven, like her chest couldn’t decide if it wanted to rise at all.
Mira’s gaze flicked sideways, catching the faint reflection of them both in the mirror propped against the wall.
Zoey’s face was streaked, pale, her shoulders curled in so tight she looked half her size.
For a second, Mira saw the stage version of her—makeup, lights, the practiced smile—and the contrast punched her gut.
Rumi shifted, one step forward, then froze. A familiar feeling crawled towards her throat, and she couldn’t entertain it at the moment, she zippered up her jacket all the way; then bit her lip until it whitened, staying rooted in place.
No one spoke.
It felt like the whole world was waiting to see if Zoey would break or stand.
The timer glowed red on, merciless.
9:33
Mira’s back slid down the wall. She lowered herself onto the floor beside Zoey—not too close. Just close enough that the space between them didn’t feel like a void. Her arms draped over her knees, hands twitching restless.
Across the room, Rumi stayed rooted, shoulders stiff, nails carving half-moons into her palms. Her mouth open a couple times, but no words came out
Zoey’s voice was small, swallowed between shallow breaths. “Just...”
Her hand fumbled into her pants pocket. She pulled out her phone, thumb tapping quick across the glass.
Then, without looking up, she tossed it toward Rumi.
Rumi’s thumbs scrolled, eyes hard. The Brooks family chat glared back—bright screen, poison words.
— Lucky she ended up in Korea.
— Okay we are family. Just tell us already. Was the "accident" a stunt? We all know you’re not brave enough for something real.
— Rumi’s voice is insane.
— Mira’s a star.
— That little one just tagged along.
— Funny how our “star” is always in the back of the photos.
— She’s stubborn, at least. Not much else.
— Zoey, you think you can hook me up with a group? Should be easy. I’m prettier than you.
— They’re so nice for carrying her. She’s lucky.
— “The other member.” Lol. Accurate.
— At least she turned out better than expected. (Dad.)
Links littered between the words: glossy shots of Rumi mid-note, headlines screaming about her range. Clips of Mira’s sharp choreography under neon lights.
Zoey’s name was there too—on the edges. Resilient. Lucky. Miracle.
Never talent.
Never enough.
Rumi’s jaw clenched, each line carving itself deeper. She wanted to throw the phone, but her grip only tightened.
Zoey’s voice filled the cracks, quiet, defeated.
“I don’t want to ruin this. I don’t want to ruin… you.”
Her hand twisted the gummy bag, plastic screaming under her grip. She squeezed it tighter, until the corners bit her palm.
“Sometimes I starve myself,” she whispered, almost ashamed to give it shape.
“To get control. Or punish myself with—
For thinking I could… be more.”
Mira’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide, but words caught in her throat.
Zoey swallowed, voice dry and breaking. “I’m really trying. I want to be enough. I didn’t eat since—” She cut herself off, shaking the bag in her fist. Empty. “Twenty worms. That’s all I let myself have. Seven days. Until I fixed us. And now they’re gone.”
Her voice cracked.
“Now I’m gone.”
Words caught on her throat and her head fell forward. "If I don't go out there—If i don't do this—", She knew she had to. But she couldn’t, her body refused to.
The silence pressed down heavy.
Rumi’s fingers clenched hard around the phone. She didn’t trust her own voice. Slowly, she extended it across the room, passing it to Mira.
Mira took it. Her eyes scanned fast, sharp, then slowed. By the time she looked up, her armor was gone, her mouth hollow with rage and grief.
The timer glowed again, loud in its stillness.
5:10
A knock rattled the door. Sharp. Professional. Bobby’s voice filtered through, muffled by wood and distance.
“Girls? Two minutes to prep. Interview’s waiting.”
The three of them froze.
Zoey’s fingers still twisted the empty gummy bag, plastic crackling in her fists. Mira’s nails dug into her palms where she crouched, eyes locked on the floor. The air was too thin, too heavy.
Rumi moved first. Her spine straightened slow, deliberate. Leader’s posture sliding over her like second skin. She didn’t look at them when she spoke.
“I will take care of this.”
Her voice was flat, firm. The kind that didn’t ask permission.
She crossed the room, each step controlled. When she reached the door, she didn’t hesitate—she pulled it open and slipped through before either of them could stop her.
The door clicked shut.
Her voice carried back a moment later, clear and steady in the hall.
“It will be a solo interview. I just need some make-up...”
"We will get your mic, and ask the 'last looks' crew for some help." Bobby answered warmly, no questions asked. Their voices muffling under their steps.
Zoey’s breath hitched. Her body went rigid, frozen mid-curl against the couch.
Mira’s head snapped up, eyes wide. She’d seen it. The ripple of light under Rumi’s skin, the way her patterns had surged—not with calm, but with something volatile.
Both of them sat in silence, frozen in the truth they couldn’t say aloud.
Rumi was not okay.
And she was about to walk out there alone.
They couldn’t follow. Not yet.
Silence grew like quick sand rising avobe them.
Until, from outside the door, Rumi’s steady voice carried, distant but sharp:
“Testing mic. One, two.”
Zoey’s whisper cracked the air.
“She’s not okay.”
Mira’s eyes flicked toward the door, then back to Zoey. “Neither are you.”
Zoey laughed, hollow, shaking her head. “At least I’m used to it.”
That dug under Mira’s skin. She shifted forward, voice low, urgent.
“Stop saying that. Stop acting like you being hurt is normal. Like it’s just—something we’re supposed to accept.”
Zoey’s eyes brimmed. She turned away, pressing her forehead to her knees. “You don’t get it. I’ve been everyone’s punching bag. And when I finally thought I escaped, when I thought maybe I mattered—my own family still called me a tag-along.”
Her nails scraped the plastic in her hands until it whined. “And you and Rumi—you don’t even see it, do you? Every headline screams your names. And mine? I’m just lucky.”
Mira’s chest tightened. She wanted to deny it, to shut it down. But she couldn’t. Not when Zoey’s voice carried the weight of years.
Her reply came slow. Careful.
“Zoey… lucky doesn’t last this long. We didn’t carry you. We can’t. You’d never let us.”
Zoey’s head lifted a fraction, eyes red. “Then why do I still feel like I’m dragging you down?”
Mira leaned in, voice sharpening, her honesty like a blade. “Because you believe the wrong voices. You’ve been letting their poison eat through everything until you can’t hear us anymore.”
Zoey’s throat worked, swallowing. “What if they’re right? What if I’m not enough?”
Mira’s eyes burned. She dragged in a breath that scraped her lungs.
“Then they’re blind. And you’re deaf. Because we’ve been shouting your worth for years, Zo. Screaming it.”
The words cracked in Mira’s chest, sharper than she wanted.
Zoey shook her head, almost desperate. “You don’t know what it feels like. To starve yourself because you think maybe if you disappear a little, it’ll hurt less. To punish yourself for wanting more than you deserve.”
Mira’s stomach dropped. She reached out before she could stop herself, fingers brushing Zoey’s sleeve. “You don’t deserve punishment. You don’t deserve hunger. You don’t deserve any of what they did to you.”
Zoey’s lip trembled. She pulled back an inch, but not all the way. “Then why can’t I believe you?”
Mira’s voice broke, raw. “Because you’ve been trained not to.”
They sat there, words spent, silence thick. Zoey’s sobs quieted into shaky breaths. Her fingers loosened on the crumpled bag until it slid to the floor.
Mira stayed still, afraid to push too hard, afraid to break the fragile calm.
Finally, Zoey whispered, so small it nearly vanished:
“I don’t want to disappear. Not from this. Not from you.”
Mira’s throat closed. She leaned in, closing the space just enough. Her voice was rough, but steady.
“Then don’t. Stay. Even if it hurts, even if it’s messy. Stay with us.”
Zoey’s gaze flicked up, wet, searching. “Even if I’m broken?”
Mira’s jaw tightened, her answer instant, steel-cut.
“Especially if you’re broken. That’s when you’re ours the most.”
Zoey’s breath stuttered. Her shoulders loosened, just a fraction. She wiped at her face with her sleeve, but her hands kept shaking. “Then why—why do I still feel like I don’t deserve it?”
Mira’s throat closed. Her eyes flicked to the shredded gummy bag. She swallowed hard before forcing the words out.
“Because of that, right?”
Zoey froze. Her grip tightened on the bag.
Mira’s voice softened, hesitant, like she was walking across broken glass. “Zo… the worms. The way you… use them. That’s not nerves. That’s—”
“Don’t.” Zoey snapped, voice high and raw. “Don’t call it what it isn’t.”
Her chest heaved. “You don’t get it. It’s not some… disorder. It’s survival.” She squeezed the bag until the plastic crackled like fire. “They took everything else. My food, my music, even my clothes off my back. They made me eat what I hated. And I smiled for them.”
Her words shook as her throat burned. “This—” she rattled the bag— “is the only thing that’s mine. The only thing they can’t twist.”
Her voice cracked. “If I don’t have this, I don’t have anything.”
Mira’s stomach turned cold.
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Zoey that wasn’t true. But the words stuck. Because Zoey’s voice carried a truth Mira couldn’t cut down without breaking her further.
Mira’s breath stuttered. Her hands flexed uselessly in her lap.
Outside, Rumi’s voice carried again, smooth, steady, a mask they both knew too well:
“Yes, the mic’s fine. I’m ready when you are.”
Zoey flinched at the sound. Her hand instinctively reached toward the door, then dropped.
Mira caught the motion. She leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper.
“She’s not fine. Neither are you. But we’ll fix it. Together. After this.”
Zoey nodded faintly, eyes closing. Her breath trembled, but for the first time since the twins touched her, she didn’t feel completely alone.
1:00
The storm outside was coming, but in the camerino, the quiet between Zoey and Mira finally felt like something close to truth.
Notes:
"To starve yourself because you think maybe if you disappear a little, it’ll hurt less."
Bet if you read chapter 14 again it has a whole different vibe now.
Chapter 41: That's not what I said
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Outside the door, voices shifted, sharp against the hum of equipment. A producer’s clipped tone cut through the hall:
“We are live in five… four…”
Mira’s voice slipped in low, almost careful, like she was afraid of breaking glass.
“Can I—can I sit closer?”
Zoey’s throat bobbed. A small nod.
Mira slid in beside her, the couch cushions dipping with the weight. Her arm curled tentative but firm around Zoey’s shoulders. She tugged Zoey’s head against her own shoulder, holding her there like the pressure alone might pin her together.
“I’m sorry,” Mira murmured, voice rougher than she meant. Her chest rose and fell too quick against Zoey’s temple. “Sorry I don’t… have better words. Sorry if I seemed… cold.”
Zoey’s breath hitched, shaky. She didn’t answer, but her fingers gripped the fabric of Mira’s sleeve, and she let the warmth sink in—the steady drum of Mira’s heartbeat under the storm.
The countdown bled into muffled applause. A host’s bright, over-practiced opening line rose beyond the door. Then dulled. The latch clicked.
Celine stood there.
The lock turned under her hand, her silhouette framed in the harsh overhead lights. Her blazer sharp, her presence crisp, professional—but her eyes lingered too long on the two of them. The edges softened.
Zoey’s head lifted just enough, her voice thin. “Celine—how are you here?”
“I’ve been in touch with Bobby,” Celine said evenly, like this was just another bullet point in her planner. She stepped inside, closing the door with a muted thud. Her gaze swept the room—Mira’s tense shoulders, Zoey’s red-rimmed eyes. “He told me there was an incident during the fan event. That you all seemed… shaken.”
Zoey swallowed hard, throat tight. She pressed closer into Mira’s side, inhaling the faint scent of her shampoo—clean, strong, grounding.
Mira’s jaw worked, tendons tight. Her reply came clipped, blunt. “The twins.”
Her eyes snapped from Celine to Zoey to the door. Rumi’s voice bled faint through the wall—low, steady, rehearsed.
Zoey’s hand twisted tighter in Mira’s sleeve. She mumbled, almost too soft: “She’s not okay.”
Mira shifted, breath catching like a spring about to snap. She braced to move, her whole body tilting forward, calculating how to leave Zoey in Celine’s care and bolt to Rumi. “If I go out there Zoey’s absence will be headli—”
But Celine cut across the thought, her voice like a line drawn in sand. Her eyes fixed on Zoey.
“What do you want?”
The question landed heavy, sharp as her blades.
Zoey’s lips parted. No sound at first. Her throat worked once, twice, before the words broke free.
“I wanna be there for her.”
The answer hollowed Mira out. She felt it in her ribs—something cracking. Even now, broken open, Zoey’s first instinct wasn’t herself. It was loyalty. Selfless. Unshakable.
Celine’s shoulders eased. She crossed the room slowly, heels soft against the tile, and settled near Zoey without crowding her. Close enough that her calm weight in the room grounded the air.
A knock rattled the door. Bobby’s head peeked in, already halfway through a question: “Are you all—”
He stopped. His eyes caught on Zoey’s swollen face, the tremor in her hands.
Silence stretched. He swallowed, tugged at his sleeve, adjusted his watch with a twitch. “I’ll… be right back.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
__________________
The lights hit her first—hot, merciless.
They pressed down on her skin until even the thin fabric of her blouse felt heavy.
Rumi sat tall on the couch, posture flawless, hands folded tight in her lap. The mic clipped neatly to her collar prickled against her neck, the wire scratching each time she shifted.
A producer’s voice cut sharp through the haze of chatter and shifting cameras:
“We are live in five… four…”
The rest of the countdown passed in crisp hand signals, black shirts darting just off stage.
Rumi inhaled once, sharp and steady. The breath scraped down her throat. Her eyes flicked toward the hallway, toward the memory of Zoey’s hunched shoulders—her reason for being here.
The mask slid into place.
The countdown bled into muffled applause, warm and bright but distant, like it belonged to another world.
The main camera panned across the studio audience—faces blurred under the lights, shadows broken by the flash of phones—before locking on the host, MG, perched too easily in his sleek chair.
“Welcome to K-talk! I’m your host, MG, and we’re live!” His smile gleamed under the lights, the kind that never reached his eyes. “Tonight, the masks come off and the truth takes center stage—the long-awaited return of Huntr/x is finally under the spotlight.”
The camera swung to her.
“Joining me tonight is the one and only Rumi, the idol making headlines even on hiatus. Welcome to the show!”
Claps, cheers, the hum of camera shutters.
Rumi smiled, polite and practiced, bowing her head just enough. Her palms pressed so tightly together that the ridges of her nails dug half-moons into her skin. The faint twitch of her shoulders betrayed the effort of staying still.
“Thank you for having me. I’m honored to represent Huntr/x tonight.”
MG leaned back, flashing that same sharp smile. His teeth caught the light, but his gaze was all edges.
“How does it feel to be back?” A softball, tossed too easily.
Rumi’s answer came smooth, rehearsed.
“It feels good. Familiar. Being together always felt right. I can’t wait to be on a stage with them again.”
She blinked twice—too fast, too raw—before forcing her expression back to calm.
MG’s gaze lingered on the empty seats beside her. He let the silence stretch, long enough for the cameras to taste it, then moved on.
“What can fans expect?”
Rumi’s voice smoothed into professionalism, but her fingers tightened on her lap until the skin blanched.
“There are no concerts yet, no new album right now. Our focus is Zoey’s recovery. But we miss our fans deeply, and we’ll try to be present at as many fan events, interviews, and opportunities as possible.”
The audience softened, applause rising, warm and sympathetic.
MG let it breathe—then slipped the knife in.
“Speaking of that…”
The screen behind them lit up.
The twins blurred on the edges, cropped to near nothing. Zoey in the center, her face twisted in pain. Rumi’s arm clamped too tight around her forearm.
Rumi’s chest tightened. She tried to focus on the lights, the set, anything but Zoey in the sajas hands. Zoey curled on the camerino floor. Zoey’s confession. Zoey’s family messages. The broken sound of her voice beggin.
No—don’t think of that.
Not now.
“After today’s event there was this photo of you holding Zoey—almost aggressively. What happened there?”
Her throat closed. Her pulse pounded hot in her ears. She remembered the instinct, the grip, the terror of losing her.
She forced the pause, smoothing the edges.
“She wasn’t feeling well. I held her to steady her. That’s all.”
Clipped. Controlled. But under her cuff, the faint shimmer of her patterns betrayed the strain.
MG nodded too quickly, leaning forward.
“She looked pretty shocked for someone not feeling well. Witnesses say you dragged her to the changing room afterward?”
Rumi’s steadiness wavered. She had only wanted to keep Zoey safe. But under this spotlight, her grip looked like something else—like possession.
And now even she wondered if she had shielded too hard. Her stomach twisted.
“My role as a leader is to protect them. And I will not apologize for doing that.”
Her leg crossed, posture sharp, chin lifted.
“And just how do you think someone ‘not feeling well’ is supposed to look? Maybe we’ll rehearse next time.”
Poison wrapped in silk.
MG smirked, unfazed. “Well, it’s clear you’re passionate about your role. What a good leader.” He waved for the photo to vanish.
“Now—how is Zoey’s miraculous recovery going? When do you expect to perform again?” His tone softened, but the barbs curled beneath.
Rumi’s jaw ached. She forced her smile tighter, until her teeth pressed grooves into her lip.
“She is improving. Slowly, consistently. She will take as much time as she needs, and we will wait with her.”
MG’s smirk stretched. “Having two bandmates so understanding. So unconcerned about a drop in the charts. Zoey is, in fact, very luck—”
“She is not lucky. She is strong.” Rumi cut in, her voice silk over steel.
She turned straight to the camera, her words deliberate, honeyed.
“We know our fans. They’ll stay with us through this. We’re not worried. We don’t keep track of the charts—our manager, Bobby, tells us what we need to know. And—” she shifted her eyes back to MG, sharp “—Huntr/x is three people. We are not just understanding with Zoey. We need her.”
The room stilled, taut as wire.
MG shifted his ankle over his knee, sprawling into the couch like it belonged to him.
“Of course, of course. Huntr/x is a trio. But with no return date… some say Huntr/x doesn’t belong at the top anymore.”
Her chest squeezed tight. Breath caught.
But her voice came smooth, measured.
“We respect all groups. We work hard. Where we stand… will be proven when we return on stage.”
Perfect. Polished. Unshakable.
But her shoulders had gone rigid, and her knuckles pressed white into her knee. The cameras caught every fracture.
Then the blade.
“What about the takedown track not being released?”
Her stomach dropped. Her breath stuttered. The memory scraped raw—betrayal, failure, the echo of her own helplessness.
Her lips parted. Silence. Too long. Too damning.
Finally, she forced the words out, brittle.
“We sold the track. It belongs to TWICE now. You should listen to it—it sounds great with their voices.”
The words cracked faint at the edges. Just enough for anyone looking closely to see.
MG leaned forward, sensing blood. Cameras zoomed tight on her face.
Rumi was still upright, still flawless—
but only just.
The air thickened, steaming inside her lungs. One more push, and she would snap.
MG’s grin widened, thin and sharp.
“What about the rumors of a break up? The performance at the Idols Awards—your company called it acting, but it still sparks debate.”
Rumi’s lips curved in the smallest smile.
“What can I say? Acting is a strength of mine.”
It landed like bravado, but her fingers twitched once, betraying her.
MG pressed harder, words cutting like teeth.
“The diss-track you sold. The change in aesthetics. Your… skin condition. A three-month hiatus. How do your bandmates feel about all of that?”
The crowd buzzed, restless.
Rumi froze.
Her mask slipped—just a flicker, but enough.
And then—
The stage door opened.
The air snapped, audience murmurs rising.
Mira walked in first, stone-steady. Her hand brushed light but certain against Zoey’s. The maknae pale, fragile—but upright. Her steps small, deliberate. Chin lifted just enough.
The crowd gasped, applause swelling, crashing against the set like a tide.
Rumi’s composure cracked. Shock flashed, then relief. Her shoulders finally dropped, her breath catching like release.
From the wings, Bobby’s calm voice steadied everything.
“Five minutes until segment change. Camera 2—hold for Zoey.”
It looked seamless. Like a plan.
But Rumi knew better.
Her eyes cut past the lights, past the cameras—straight to Zoey.
And Zoey—
was the one to step forward.
Not Bobby. Not Mira. Not her.
Celine, just behind the cameras, stayed silent. She didn’t move, didn’t interfere—only watched. Her hands were clasped loosely in front of her, but her eyes… her eyes lingered, fixed on the three of them, knowing what it cost to walk through that door.
Rumi’s chest loosened, a breath slipping out like air from a cracked glass. Relief, sharp and stinging, caught in her throat.
“Hey everybody!” Mira’s voice cut across the hum, bright and sharp-edged. She waved with one hand, her grin practiced but carrying real teeth.
The crowd erupted. Cheers bounced off the studio walls, ricocheting against the hot stage lights. The buzz made the air feel electric.
Mira crossed the stage without falter, her boots clicking once, twice, before she dropped onto the far end of the couch—opposite Rumi. A deliberate distance.
Rumi shifted immediately, subtle, opening a space in the middle.
Zoey stepped forward, the hesitation clear in the way her foot hovered for half a beat too long before hitting the floor. Her shoulders curled tight, her eyes darting fast between lights, cameras, the endless audience glow. Then—her knees bent, body folding carefully as she lowered into the middle seat.
Flanked. Guarded.
And when her voice came, it sliced the charged air clean.
“So, MG. You want to know what we think?”
The words were sharp, but her chest rose too quickly, the breath uneven. Her bravado rang like a blade over exhaustion, but the target wasn’t hidden—she wasn’t going to let this man drag Rumi further.
Both Mira and Rumi leaned closer without thought, shoulders brushing against Zoey’s. The shift was small, but it changed everything. Not just three idols on a couch—an alliance.
The host tilted his head, eyes glinting, pretending curiosity.
“Then tell me. What do you think?”
Zoey’s lips twitched, mischief sparking through the nerves. She leaned forward, hands fluttering once in her lap before she stilled them.
“Well, I think if you wanted to break us up, you should’ve tried during rehearsal. Way less dramatic. And cheaper for your legal team.”
The audience broke—laughter, applause, whistles rolling over themselves in waves.
Zoey grinned wide, unsteady but hers. Her voice tumbled out quick, playful:
“Also, uh… if we did break up, who would keep Rumi from turning every schedule into a battlefield strategy? Or Mira from scaring off, like, every poor intern who makes eye contact?”
Gasps, laughter, applause. The crowd roared for her, feeding her spark.
MG leaned in, smile thin, eyes sharp.
“So you’re denying the break-up rumors?”
Before Zoey could falter, Mira’s voice cut clean, her tone cool steel.
“Huntr/x doesn’t break. That’s the whole point.”
The set rattled under the roar of applause.
MG let it stretch, then slid the next hook.
“There’s also been buzz about solo work. Any truth to that?”
Silence thickened. The cameras zoomed close.
Zoey froze. Her fingers twisted in her lap until her knuckles whitened. Her throat bobbed once, twice, no sound. For a moment—it looked like she’d fold.
Then she pushed forward. Shoulders squared. Breath trembling out.
“Yes. I’ve been writing. For myself. It’s about… finding my voice.”
The words shook but rang true, undeniable.
The audience rippled—cheers, murmurs, scattered gasps.
Rumi and Mira turned to her at the same time. Their eyes met across Zoey’s shoulders, a silent exchange—recognition, not just support.
And then—they nodded.
MG’s smile widened, hungry.
“You heard it here first. Zoey has been working on her solo project. Moving away from Huntr/x—”
“That is not what I said.”
Zoey’s cut was sharp, clear enough that even MG’s practiced flow faltered.
Her shoulders straightened, her voice steadied.
“I’ve always been told I was lucky to be here. That anyone could’ve been me. That I was just the extra piece to Mira and Rumi’s perfect puzzle. But I’m not here because of luck. I’m here because I fight. Because I work. Because I am enough.
My solo album—it’s not about leaving Huntr/x. It’s about proving to myself, to everyone, that I can stand.”
The crowd hushed, sound sucked out of the air.
MG’s voice dropped, bait laced with venom.
“And how do the other members feel about this… personal pursuit?”
Rumi leaned forward, her hand brushing against Zoey’s as if steadying her.
“Zoey isn’t just part of Huntr/x. She’s the heart of it. Without her, there is no us.”
Mira’s smirk sliced sharp across the tension.
“If you missed that? You weren’t watching the right group.”
Rumi reached fully, her fingers threading through Zoey’s trembling hand. Her words softened, but her tone held.
“This isn’t about Huntr/x tonight. It’s about Zoey. She’s earned this moment.”
Mira leaned in, her gaze locking with the camera like a challenge.
“For anyone that still thinks she’s just ‘the other member’... watch what happens when she goes solo. You’ll learn fast.”
The set shook under the eruption—cheers, chants, applause thundering like a stadium.
MG’s smile had thinned to a line.
“Well, it sounds like your bandmates here have already written the ending for you.”
The audience chuckled, uneasy.
Zoey blinked once. Twice. Then she leaned forward, chin lifting, voice trembling but unshaken.
“No. They didn’t write this for me. I did.”
The room stilled.
Her hands shook in Rumi’s grip, but her gaze burned steady into the camera.
“I’ve spent years being told I was lucky. That I was carried. That I was just an extra piece. And I believed it. I almost let it bury me.
But tonight? You’re hearing me. My words. My choice. This isn’t luck. This is mine.”
The silence broke into a roar—cheers raw and deafening, rattling the lights overhead.
Mira’s smirk turned sharp, pride breaking through. Rumi’s grip steadied Zoey’s hand, her patterns pulsing calm for the first time all night.
MG’s grin had nothing behind it now. His cards spent, his voice flat.
“...Well. You heard it here first.”
The cameras cut wide—catching Zoey framed between Mira and Rumi, her shoulders pressed between theirs, her smile trembling but unshakable.
Backstage, Bobby dragged a hand down his face, finally exhaling.
“That’s it. That’s the headline.”
And just behind him, Celine whispered, softer than a breath:
“Finally. She stood.”
Notes:
See you in a week or so.
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MikeyTheMikey on Chapter 1 Thu 04 Sep 2025 07:57AM UTC
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Ae_overthinker on Chapter 1 Thu 04 Sep 2025 11:44AM UTC
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Bianca13 (Guest) on Chapter 3 Mon 18 Aug 2025 03:37PM UTC
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Ae_overthinker on Chapter 6 Mon 18 Aug 2025 03:27AM UTC
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FrozenWings on Chapter 8 Fri 29 Aug 2025 11:53PM UTC
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Ae_overthinker on Chapter 9 Tue 09 Sep 2025 02:58AM UTC
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FriendlyLegoPerson on Chapter 10 Fri 15 Aug 2025 02:41PM UTC
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heartsofcinder on Chapter 13 Mon 18 Aug 2025 07:21AM UTC
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Ae_overthinker on Chapter 13 Tue 19 Aug 2025 12:17AM UTC
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Ae_overthinker on Chapter 13 Wed 20 Aug 2025 06:12AM UTC
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Nimerya (Guest) on Chapter 13 Mon 18 Aug 2025 04:46PM UTC
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Ae_overthinker on Chapter 13 Tue 19 Aug 2025 03:35PM UTC
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Nimerya (Guest) on Chapter 14 Tue 19 Aug 2025 05:35PM UTC
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Ae_overthinker on Chapter 14 Tue 19 Aug 2025 07:08PM UTC
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Nimerya (Guest) on Chapter 15 Tue 19 Aug 2025 04:58PM UTC
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Ae_overthinker on Chapter 15 Tue 19 Aug 2025 07:05PM UTC
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Nimerya (Guest) on Chapter 15 Tue 19 Aug 2025 08:23PM UTC
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Ae_overthinker on Chapter 15 Wed 20 Aug 2025 05:15AM UTC
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