Chapter Text
The stage breathed fire.
It was no platform of steel and smoke, but a living beast. Ribs of light, nerves of bass, drawing breath in thunderous bursts. Crimson glowsticks rippled like a blood tide across the sea of bodies. Smoke rolled low across the floor, swallowing dancers as they slid into formation.
And at the center stood Oni.
Her mask gleamed obsidian, circuitry veins pulsing crimson as though molten blood burned beneath. Twin horns jutted from her temples, jagged and regal. The crown of some ancient tyrant. Gold eyes glimmered through the slits, catching firelight until she seemed not human at all, but an effigy carved from stone instead of sinew.
The crowd screamed her name until it became prayer.
“Oni! Oni! Oni!”
She did not bow. She did not smile. She moved.
Every snap of her body struck the beat like a blade. Her boots creaked as she prowled forward, hips rolling to the rhythm. Each motion precise, predatory, rehearsed into instinct. The air cannons above belched fire, illuminating her jagged, poisonous purple tattoos. She lifted the mic, and her voice thundered through the speakers. One breath soft as heaven, the next fractured into something monstrous.
“Under blood-red lights, can you feel me break?
Every scream you give is mine to take…”
Her tone plunged into distortion, as if her throat had split into two voices grinding each other to dust.
“Whisper my name, feel it carve through your skin.
Oni’s your shadow. Let Oni in.”
She stalked forward, stretching out her hand to the pit below. Fans surged closer, straining for the chance. Not to touch, but to be seen. A single glance from her golden eyes was worth bruises, worth blood, worth damnation.
The dancers writhed behind her, grinding against each other in sync with the rhythm, yet none dared draw too near. Always a gulf between Oni and the rest, an infinity carved by fear.
Then the horns atop her mask ignited. A sickly purple glow spread like poison through water, dimming the crimson veins across her faceplate until, for a heartbeat, all light drained away. When the red flared back it was blinding, an eruption too bright to look at.
“Oni! Oni! Burn with me now!” she roared.
The crowd answered, their chant rising from song into ritual. Their voices fed her, until she poured more fury into the mic, more venom into every note.
“Oni! Oni! Bleed for me now!”
She dropped to her knees at the edge of the stage. Fingers clawed up toward her, frantic, desperate, inches from grazing her flesh. Oni knew if she fell they would not catch her, they would devour her, limb from limb, as gladly as they would embrace her.
She leaned down, voice a velvet hiss dripping with venom.
“Pray for me now, I’ll love your sins.
Chains break, but you’re mine again.”
The lights cut to black. Only her mask lit the stage, a lone ember amidst the audience’s sea of blood.
The crowd howled even louder.
Heat from the pyrotechnics pressed down like divine judgment. Oni sang on, each lyric slamming harder than the last. The dancers slithered closer, their movements feral, clawing at each other but never daring to touch her. They were mere spawn, and she was the devil. They were born to burn, and she to pour gasoline and strike the match.
Her voice sliced through the surrounding frenzy.
“Oni! Oni! Burn with me now!
Oni! Oni! Bleed for me now!”
She rose in one fluid motion, dragging her hand skyward as though pulling strings only she could see. The crowd obeyed like puppets, their bodies jerked into harmony by invisible wires.
Her voice hissed through the mic, low and lethal:
“All I’ve got is fire.
All I’ve got is pain.
All I’ve got, all I’ve got… is Oni .”
She lowered her forehead to the microphone. Ragged breaths spilled raw across the speakers, freezing the audience mid-chant. The silence lingered one heartbeat too long.
Then her roar shattered it.
“ONI CLAIMS YOU, SAY IT!
ONI MAKES YOU, PRAY IT!”
She spread her arms wide. The crowd’s reply was not music, but surrender.
“Oni! Oni! Oni!”
And then she turned on her heel, stepping away, the glow of her mask fading with every step from the stage.
Applause followed her through the door at the back of the stage that led into the bowels of the stadium. Chants of her name were relentless, echoing down the corridors like the aftershock of an earthquake.
Oni walked as if carved from stone.
Every step was measured, unhurried, her mask still glowing faintly with the barest flicker of LED light.
Two burly security guards kept pace at her flanks, cutting a path through the cramped hallway. Staff pressed to the walls as she passed, murmuring congratulations, offering bottles of water, towels to catch the sweat that still clung to her skin.
She took none of it. Oni did not linger. Oni did not need comfort from strangers who sought less to soothe and more to sneak a glimpse beneath the mask.
A pair of interns bowed clumsily as she swept by. One stammered, “Y-you were incredible.” His voice cracked with awe. Oni did not answer. To acknowledge praise was to acknowledge the individual behind the words.
Farther down the corridor, velvet ropes penned in a cluster of VIPs. They screamed her name, voices hoarse from chanting her lyrics only minutes earlier.
Hands shot up, waving, desperate for even the faintest gesture in return. Oni gave them nothing.
The only hint she even saw them was a slow turn of her head in their direction. The briefest flicker of attention, and they collapsed against one another, squealing.
Pathetic. Disgusting.
She moved on, feet marching at the same unhurried pace as before.
At last she reached her door. Two guards stood as silent sentinels on either side. They bowed their heads as she passed, though Oni did not grant them so much as a glance.
The room swallowed her whole when the door closed. The applause, the chants, the heat of bodies and flame. Smothered in an instant.
Good. Oni would be displeased to have received an insufficiently soundproofed room.
Silence was all that remained.
Only the faint hum of the LEDs interlaced in her mask could be heard, their glow reflected in the mirror above the vanity.
Oni stared back: obsidian, horns, gold eyes burning behind narrow slits. As regal as she was inhuman.
Her hands rose. Slow, deliberate, steady. Not to beckon or command, but to the clasps at the side of her head. Metal groaned softly as it came free from Rumi’s face.
The mask set gently on the vanity with a hollow clink.
The LEDs died with the faint flick of a switch.
Leaving just… Rumi.
With a roaring silence louder than a crowd could ever be.
Cool air rushed to meet her bare skin, and her breath hitched.
She took in her smeared mascara and too-pale skin with a grimace, hating how fragile she looked.
Rumi lasted a moment like that. Back perfectly straight, hands resting heavily at her sides.
Then her knees crumpled. She went straight to the cold tile floor of the dressing room, not even bothering to catch herself on the vanity.
The flats of her palms dug into her eyes in a futile effort to stop the tears, but nothing could stop the painful sobs tearing through her chest.
Breaths came in short, desperate bursts of life-saving reprieve.
Every broken sound from her lips made her hate herself just a little bit more.
Why am I such a screw-up? The thought screamed in her mind. Oni had just conquered an army of thousands, bent them to her voice, made them scream until their throats bled.
A showing that would make any celebrity jealous and beg for her secret. She could already hear the praising voices of her team, maybe they would even say it was the best show yet.
All of that, and she still couldn’t be fucking happy . Couldn’t even hold it together.
Rumi’s shoulders shook harder. She pressed her forehead to the tile, welcoming its chill. Isn’t success supposed to be enough? Why isn’t it enough?
The silence of the room gave her no answer. It only swallowed every excuse for her weakness she tried to build.
Oni could have any person on earth right now. Any person with a pulse would be glad to party with her, sing her praises, help celebrate her victory.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it?
Oni could do all those things. Oni was the one who got standing ovations and perfect all-kills. Oni was the name called by adoring fans and broadcasted alike.
Her nails scraped down her arms until angry red lines marked her skin.
But we’re the same, aren’t we? The thought curdled in her stomach. T hen why doesn’t it feel like it?
Rumi curled tighter against the floor, her breath shallow and uneven, blackness creeping in around the corners of her vision.
The mask lay on the vanity above her head, yet she could still feel it digging into her skin.
Her sobs dwindled into shuddering gasps, each one scraping her throat raw.
She stayed curled on the floor, arms falling from her eyes to wrap around herself in a hollow attempt at comfort.
Her gaze fixed blankly on the ceiling for what felt like a century before drifting, unbidden, downward.
Toward the mask.
It waited there in silence, its circuitry veins dull and lifeless. Even dead, it glowed in her mind’s eye.
Rumi knew if she just reached out, grabbed it, and let it slide over her face, she could have everything she needed. Control. Power. Stability. Maybe even something resembling happiness.
Her hand twitched before she could stop it.
“No…” Rumi’s whisper broke against her teeth, but her body didn’t listen. Fingers stretched toward the vanity without her consent. She hated the thought, hated needing it, yet she reached regardless.
I just need a little bit to get me home.
The thought slithered in, slick and poisonous. Just a little. I’ll take it off as soon as I’m home. I just need to… catch my breath for a second.
Rumi’s fingertips grazed the cold metal. Her breath caught, sharp, as though oxygen itself had been replaced by the promise before her.
She screwed her eyes shut, tears breaking free anew.
I hate this. I hate her.
I need this. I love her.
Rumi bowed her head against the vanity, knuckles white around the mask. Her hands shook as she raised it to her face and tightened it snugly.
The mask slid easily over skin, cool metal soothing. LEDs flared to life. Rumi’s breathing settled almost instantly.
Oni rose from the floor in one fluid motion.
She opened the door of the changing room and stepped into the awaiting corridor.
Her boots were heavy with sweat and her form-fitting leather scraped uncomfortably at her skin, but Oni did not shift, did not fidget. She always bore what Rumi could not.
Security guards straightened at once, falling into place like shadows all around her. They numbered in the double digits, typical after one of her big shows.
The hallways were emptier than usual; most had already left.
A large parking garage yawned open ahead, a cavern of concrete echoing with the low hum of engines and the drum of voices.
Paparazzi pressed at the far ropes. Cameras flashed in a rapid volley of pictures. Security met them head-on, keeping them behind the barrier, but their voices carried regardless.
“Oni! Over here!”
“Is it true you and the lead vocalist of PSCH4 are dating?!”
“Look at the camera!”
Her head never even twitched in their direction. Golden eyes stayed locked on the path ahead.
A black car waited, sleek and silent, the back door held open by a meek staffer too afraid to even lift his head.
Oni slid inside without breaking stride, the mask’s glow bathing the interior in crimson.
The door closed behind her, and the driver wasted no time putting distance between them and the increasingly feral crowd.
She had no idea why they’d surged with such sudden energy. Perhaps some foolish thought that, if they got close enough to the car, they might glimpse her face.
Foolish to the extreme. Oni’s face was already on blatant display. It blazed across billboards on the drive back to Sunlight Entertainment Tower, flawless and inescapable. It trended on every social media platform, filled every screen, and sold out stadiums across the globe.
When they descended into the subterranean garage of the tower, fluorescent lights hummed low over rows of gleaming machines.
SUVs and sedans lined the shadows, their dark-tinted windows promising anonymity. Vanishing points on wheels. Oni did not so much as glance at them. Vehicles for hiding, for slipping away unseen. A coward’s kind of car.
The supercars drew more of her attention. Even in stillness, their engines seemed to vibrate with the promise of power. Gleaming metal and sharpened lines that reminded her of her own face. Power incarnate, gaudy and unapologetic. The type of vehicle that demanded attention.
None of them mattered. Not really.
Her car purred along the shadows, black and silent, its paint drinking the fluorescent light like a void on wheels. No chrome to flash, no bold design choices to boast.
The type of car meant to slip through life undetected. Necessary, perhaps. A sacrifice Oni could make sometimes.
Her driver pulled up to the elevator door without preamble and without a single word spoken the entire journey, exactly how Oni liked it.
She wasted no time stepping out of the car and into the waiting elevator. With the press of a button, she was off to her private penthouse.
A whole floor of the tower, custom-built to her every preference.
The elevator rose in silence. Fluorescent light hummed above her. Oni stood unmoving, arms at her sides, the mask’s faint glow painting the steel walls in streaks of crimson. Her reflection stared back in warped fragments from the polished metal.
The elevator doors parted.
Air swept in, cool and sharp with the faint tang of lemon cleaner. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city, a sprawl of neon lights and gleaming glass skyscrapers.
Oni stepped inside. Pale marble with veins of gold gleamed beneath her boots. Black leather couches crouched around a glass table.
Immaculate chrome appliances shimmered a brilliant, expensive silver.
The space was sterile. Unlived. Not a dish out of place in the kitchen, not a single fingerprint smudge on the glass.
Her gaze flicked to the corner. Platinum records, diamond trophies, silver plaques. They caught the light and glittered like a grand treasure, but their weight was hollow.
Rumi had stacked them there with the intent of hanging them up, draping her home in Oni’s success.
But every time she reached for a hammer, her hand faltered. What would it mean to nail them to her walls? To let Oni’s victories loom over her, gleaming reminders of her own inadequacies.
So they stayed there. Silent. Dust gathered in the creases of their frames, the shine dimming a little more with each passing day.
Rumi’s hands rose at last, steady, reverent. The clasps at the base of her skull released with a soft groan. She set the mask down on the glass table with a hollow clink. Its crimson veins died in silence.
Golden contacts pinched free from her eyes. Years of practice made a mirror unnecessary.
And Rumi blinked at the sterile kingdom that was supposed to be hers.
She turned away from the trophies, from the way they glittered and sneered at her all at once. Her feet trudged toward the couch, heavy as lead.
Rumi sank into the leather, the cushions too stiff to offer comfort. Her body folded in on itself, maskless and bare. Every breath reminded her of the vast space around her, how it seemed to mock her with its emptiness.
Her phone waited on the armrest of the couch. She reached for it without thinking, gripping it a little harder than necessary. The screen lit her face, reflecting eyes she had almost forgotten were brown.
Is this it? Rumi wondered.
Was this what her life would be until the day she couldn’t handle Oni’s weight?
Concert after concert, screaming masses pressed against the stage, every note that left her lips making her feel just a little emptier. Ten thousand eyes seeing Oni, but not one seeing her.
Then the silence after. The sterile corridors. The dressing rooms where she crumpled to the tile and sobbed until her throat bled raw. The mask always waiting to offer reprieve, and her always too weak not to reach for it.
And home, if it could be called that. White marble and black leather. Awards that meant little more than aluminum wrapped in the veneer of wealth.
Was this all there was? To live as the ghost of a girl who only existed in the brief moments between concerts and rehearsals?
A sudden nausea burbled at the back of her throat. She realized she was still staring at her phone’s blank lock screen. Another thing she had never gotten around to customizing.
Fingers shook as she typed in her password and navigated to her social media.
Muscle memory almost made her start tapping through the post-concert buzz. Fan art, edits, theories, praise that had once meant so much.
Rumi forced herself to stop. She closed her eyes and drew in a short breath before looking at her phone again.
Seeing Oni’s mask wasn’t going to help anything. It certainly wasn’t going to help her.
Her thumb hovered uselessly over the glowing screen, the silence of the apartment pressing down on her. She almost turned it off, tossed the phone aside, let the couch swallow her whole.
The idea of just… lying there, knowing nothing would be different in the morning, caused something to seize tight in her chest.
Her hand twitched, restless. She needed… something. A distraction, a lifeline, a stupid answer scribbled on a bathroom wall. Anything to break the loop she found herself living in.
Rumi’s thumb slid to the search bar before she could think better of it. Words tumbled out, clumsy and embarrassing in a way she hadn’t felt in ages.
WikiHow to Reinvent Yourself.
She stared at it for a long time, lips pressed tight, heat pricking at the tips of her ears.
What a ridiculous waste of time.
Rumi really should do something else.
Eat. Sleep. Shower. All things that would make Bobby glow with happiness when he came for his usual post-performance checkup.
And yet, she still hit enter. A few minutes of reading wouldn’t hurt, she reasoned.
The page blinked into existence, a list of steps wrapped in bright little icons and cheery stock photos. Rumi huffed out a broken laugh. God, this was pathetic. WikiHow? This was what her life had come to?
She skimmed past the first step. Identify your flaws . As if she didn’t already know. As if the mirror and the mask hadn’t carved them into her enough.
Read more . She barked out a laugh, ugly and sharp. When had a book ever saved her? When had words on a page been anything but contracts and obligations?
Learn from others.
Her thumb paused. The words looked harmless enough, framed by a stock image of a perfectly diverse friend group.
Others.
Bobby’s face surfaced first. Sleep-deprived eyes, tie crooked, hands already patting out fires she’d lit without even meaning to. He would help. He always did. He’d sit on this couch and make jokes until Rumi felt nearly human. He’d order food she wouldn’t eat and pretend not to notice.
Rumi’s jaw clenched. He had his own concerns, his own debts to pay the world. She pictured his phone lighting up with three crises at once. Bobby didn’t need another weight to burden him, and the last thing she wanted was to be the one to add to the pile.
Rumi’s thumb still hovered over the page.
Celine drifted in at the edges of her vision, the way smoke creeps under a door. But Rumi couldn’t bear the pressure the woman’s image brought to mind. Lessons from Celine always came with a bite.
Nothing good would come of thinking of her. Not now, not tonight.
Rumi swallowed. The article made learning from others sound so easy, but who was Rumi supposed to learn from? The faceless staff that bowed to Oni? The fans clawing at her mask?
Her finger kept scrolling. Each line stung more than the last, until—
Change your environment.
Her breath caught. Just three words, but they stuck like a thorn in her heart. Change. Your. Environment.
She could hear her pulse beating rapidly in her ears. For the first time all night, something clicked.
Rumi’s eyes scanned the article once, then twice.
She picked out the word that seemed to appear the most.
Move. Four letters. A simple concept.
Her brain could summarize it easily: to change position.
Yet the more she stared, the harder it was to understand. Move where? Move how? Move from what. Oni?
Move. Change.
She scrolled back up to the top of the page. The words stared at her again, simple, clearer than any she had ever read.
Improve. Read. Learn. Focus. Change.
A sharp exhale left her mouth as she read the article again. This time she caught a word she had missed.
College. She tested the word on her tongue.
Fingers flew across the digital keyboard of her phone.
Rumi greedily soaked up the generic photos of smiling students. Her finger traced one of their grins.
In her mind’s eye, she was already there. No mask. No hiding in an empty apartment. Not Oni, but not quite Rumi either.
Just another girl in sneakers and a hoodie, a backpack dangling off one shoulder. Sitting at a crowded dining hall table with people who wanted nothing but her company.
She could be smiling and laughing without a care.
The thought only made the dull ache of loneliness sharper.
Suddenly, she couldn’t stand to exist like this for one more second.
She texted Bobby before she could change her mind.
I need to see you, as soon as possible. It’s important.
Within seconds, he responded.
On my way!!!!! I’ll tell my driver it’s an emergency with my girl, he’ll understand. Be at the penthouse in fifteen! If you’re dying, call 911!
Rumi barely registered the message, already diving deeper into the college rabbit hole.
She needed to know everything.
What exactly “Greek life” was. Why ramyeon was such a staple of a college student’s diet. Whether fifty people really did have to share communal showers.
All the different majors, at least the ones that sounded interesting. Why did college students complain about it being so expensive? It was only a couple hundred thousand; that was like a day of Oni touring. Or an hour into a limited-time merch drop.
Before she could delve particularly deep into anything, the elevator dinged.
Out stepped a panting Bobby, tie askew from what must have been a mad dash through the lobby.
“Rumi, what’s wrong? You texting me like that made me think the building was on fire or something!”
Rumi blinked up at him, taking in his usual energy with a small smile. She clutched her phone to her chest. She could already feel his warmth chasing away the chill of the empty apartment.
“Sorry, Bobby.”
He frowned, eyes darting over her, checking for bruises, blood, anything. When he found none, he collapsed against the wall with a heavy exhale.
“Don’t scare me like that. I had my driver run three red lights. And I would hate to have to pull the ‘I know Oni, let me go’ card again.”
Rumi waited until Bobby caught his breath, then shoved her phone at him.
“College,” she said flatly. It was the only way she could keep her voice steady, to strip it of all emotion.
Bobby blinked at the glowing screen. “College? Like… classes, professors, frat parties, ramen at 3 a.m. college?”
She gave the smallest nod.
He squinted at the open tabs. “Okay, but Greek life? Rumi, a sorority would kill you. Like, actual homicide via cheap vodka and keg stands.”
Her lips twitched, then pressed down again.
Bobby kept going, because he was Bobby. “Have you ever even had alcohol?”
“I’ve had soju,” she muttered.
He arched a brow.
“…Once.”
Bobby groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “God, you’d be eaten alive. But seriously, why? Why the sudden obsession with… this?” He gestured at her phone, at the endless pages of smiling students.
Rumi hesitated. Her chest tightened. Because they look alive hovered on the tip of her tongue. But actually saying it felt impossible, too raw, too dangerous. So instead she forced out, “I just… need a change of pace. Something different.”
Bobby studied her for a long moment. His joking softened, but he didn’t push. That was one of the reasons Rumi chose him as her manager, after all.
“A change of pace, huh? Well, lucky for you, I’m a theatre-degree veteran and have a doctorate in bullshitting my way through life.”
He flopped onto the couch beside her, tie now fully loosened.
“You know college isn’t… magical, right? It’s not all fun. People stress out, go broke, pull all-nighters, eat questionable food for every meal. Half of them are miserable.”
“I know,” Rumi answered quietly.
Bobby sighed and brushed a piece of lint off his pants.
“Are you sure?” He stressed the word sure heavily.
“I am,” Rumi replied with conviction.
Bobby eyed her critically for a few moments. Rumi almost jerked her hands toward the mask sitting quietly on the coffee table, but stopped at the last second.
He nodded a minute later.
“Well then, down to business. Rule one: you can’t show up in leather and designer boots unless you want to stand out. And that’s not a bad thing, but also not something you probably want to do, y’know, being you. Amazon’s your best friend. Pick out whatever you like and I’ll make sure you don’t look too out of place.”
Rumi frowned faintly but nodded. She hadn’t even considered how she would stand out. Worry hovered at the edge of her thoughts, but she shoved it aside. She couldn’t falter now.
“Rule two: don’t panic when you don’t know stuff. Nobody does. I had to call my mom in tears the first time I used a dryer. The Bobby Hotline is open twenty-four seven, three sixty-five.”
Her throat tightened, but for the first time all night, she felt the corner of her mouth tug upward.
“And the big one,” Bobby said, wagging a finger. “Where you’re going, and what you’re going for.”
Rumi hesitated again, eyes flicking toward the window. “Nowhere big. Close by. And… easy. I want to have time to just… breathe.”
Bobby’s grin spread wide. He whipped out his phone, pulled up a stock photo of a business suit, and thrust it in her face. “Do you think you could wear one of these bad boys?” At her soft nod, he continued, “Then congrats. You’re officially a business major. The easiest major in the universe. You show up in a suit jacket, say ‘networking’ a few dozen times, and boom. Degree.”
He launched into a tale about one of his dumber friends failing a business class and citing religious beliefs against suits as the reason he never wore one.
Rumi listened, wide-eyed at first, then increasingly relaxed. She asked questions in rapid bursts whenever she could work up the nerve.
Some serious, like whether dorms were really as bad as they sounded.
“Not really,” Bobby said, flapping a hand. “But you definitely don’t want to stay there if you can help it. We’ll find you a sublet, or something else low-profile. Less… communal-shower trauma.”
Some less serious.
“Do professors really grade everything in red ink?” Rumi almost winced at her own dumb question.
“Some,” Bobby said with mock horror. “But that’s only because their pens ran out of the blood of underclassmen.”
“Do you actually have to do so many icebreakers?”
“Dozens. Endless. Prepare to know everyone’s fun fact about owning a turtle or being double-jointed. It’s a circle of hell Dante forgot to explore.”
For the first time in what felt like months, Rumi laughed. Nothing more than a small huff here and there, but it was enough to have Bobby beaming.
They found a local college within a long walk or a short bike ride. Not the kind of place that would ever expect to host someone of Oni’s fame, but small, quiet, unassuming. Cozy in its layout. Exactly what she needed, even if she couldn’t quite pin why.
Bobby made her promise to be careful, scribbling out plans on the back of an old receipt. He insisted on having a security team close by. Something “low profile, but fast,” he said, tapping the paper with finality. An armed team capable of reaching her within minutes.
Rumi frowned, unsure. She didn’t think it was necessary, she wasn’t going to school in America after all, but Bobby’s expression brooked no argument.
“Humor me,” he said, softer than usual. “It’ll help me sleep at night.”
Time slipped by faster than it had any right to. The neon glow outside dimmed into soft morning hues. It felt strange, being in her apartment with someone else for so long. The space felt more lived-in than it ever had, despite them never straying far from the couch.
By the time Bobby was yawning and tugging at his tie, they had plans for everything. What courses to take first, how to set up her schedule, even what color to label her different subjects.
(Bobby was adamant that everything English-adjacent had to be green. He claimed it was the color of words, whatever exactly that meant.)
Rumi almost asked about Celine then. What excuse she would need, what fight would follow if she tried to pull away. But Bobby must have read her mind, because he cut her off before she could even begin.
“I’ll handle it,” he said firmly, his voice sharper than usual. “All of it. If you need time, you’ll get it. No pushback, no arguments.”
She blinked at him, throat tight. The words were so simple, yet meant so much.
Bobby smiled at her reassuringly, leaning back into the couch. “You worry about the sneakers and the textbooks. Let me be the bad guy for once.”
Her eyes stung, but she blinked the tears away before he could notice. Or maybe he did, and chose not to say anything.
When he finally dozed off against the couch cushions, she tugged a blanket over him. He mumbled something incoherent about group projects and the importance of shower shoes.
Rumi lingered a while longer, watching the morning light creep across the marble floor. Nothing was airtight. Nothing was foolproof. But it was enough for something to flicker in her chest that hadn’t been there before.
Hope.
For the first time in a long time, it was enough for her to close her eyes and let sleep take her.
And that was enough to keep Oni in the dark, if only for one night.