Chapter Text
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The day slipped by in a way that felt almost rare—smooth, unhurried, something that reminded Mira of a life she never thought she’d have. The courtyard air was crisp, touched by the faint scent of pine and earth. Birds flitted in the branches above the tiled roofs of Celine’s hanok compound, their songs mingling with the steady rhythm of wooden practice weapons striking against each other.
It was peaceful. Strange to call it that, given who they all were and what they had been through—but it was.
Sweat now clung to Mira’s back and shoulders, her breaths coming quicker as her glaive spun, only to be caught and redirected by Rumi’s sword. They moved like two parts of a single rhythm—one strike flowing into another, feints and parries giving way to sudden bursts of laughter when one slipped or overcommitted. The rhythm of their weapons clashing was steady, measured—more practice than competition.
Eventually, their wooden blades locked together in a standoff that ended when Rumi broke away, lowering her sword with a grin. Mira mirrored the gesture, planting the end of her glaive against the ground as she leaned on it, chest still rising and falling in steady pulls of breath.
It was then that Rumi tilted her head, eyes narrowing curiously. She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “So,” she asked casually, though Mira caught the sharpness underneath, “what’d you and Celine talk about earlier? Before sparring.”
Mira adjusted her stance, steadying her grip on the glaive. “Just… checking in. About how she’s doing physically after the injury.”
Rumi tilted her head. “And?”
“She said she’s fine.” Mira’s voice stayed even, though her eyes flicked away. She glanced toward the wooden post at the edge of the courtyard, remembering the way Celine’s strikes had slowed toward the end of their session earlier. “But when we sparred, I could feel it. It’s left its mark. She compensates in little ways.”
Rumi continued cautiously. “I mean… something like that would.” She paused, gaze softening. “In more ways than just physical.”
For a moment, Mira didn’t answer. The words sat heavier than she expected. She exhaled finally, her grip loosening on the wooden glaive. “…Yeah.”
The silence stretched then, filled only by the sound of their breathing and the chirps of the birds in the trees above them.
It was Rumi who broke it. She tilted her head, studying Mira the way she always did—too closely, like she could read the things Mira wanted to keep pressed down.
“What about for you?”
The question landed like a weight in Mira’s chest. She faltered, grip tightening for a brief moment. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and forcing herself to relax. Relying on cues and practices she had been learning in therapy over the last several months.
The question hung in the air, and she knew exactly what Rumi was asking without her spelling it out. Rumi was the only one who ever could cut straight to the place Mira kept locked away.
Rumi knew. Of course she knew.
Killing demons had always been different. They dissolved—red smoke, dust, something otherworldly. It didn’t feel like killing in the same way. They were monsters, some faceless. But Jinah?
Jinah had been different.
She had died like any person would. Too human. Eyes still open. Blood soaking her chest.
Mira could still see it—the shock in her eyes, the way her body collapsed when the blade struck true. No smoke. No vanishing. Just blood. Blood soaking her clothes, running down her chest. Eyes open, staring at nothing.
Too human.
The image still carved itself into Mira’s dreams some nights, even months later. It lingered, sharp in a way that somehow the nightmares couldn’t blur out.
Therapy had helped, and the months passed had, too. The three of them—Rumi, Zoey, and Mira had gone to therapy. Learned how to breathe again, how to peel apart the knots of guilt and memory. Zoey no longer went, but Rumi and Mira still did.
Rumi never pushed her to talk about it at home, never asked for details of what she said in those sessions. Mira was grateful for that. She gave Mira her silence when she needed it, her steadiness when she couldn’t find her own. But Mira knew she wondered, knew she worried.
And strangely, it had been easier to talk to Celine sometimes. Mira hated that part of herself, hated that the only other person who understood was the very same woman who had once done the same thing… to Rumi’s mother. That history hung between them like smoke—bitter and impossible to fully dispel. And yet… some part of her appreciated not being entirely alone in carrying it. An understanding that Mira hadn’t found anywhere else.
They hadn’t spoken about it directly since Celine was in the hospital, but that morning, when Celine had asked how Mira had been sleeping, Mira had understood what she was really asking. They hadn’t named Jinah out loud, but the shadow of her had sat between them anyway.
The truth was, sleep had been a battlefield for months. Mira would jolt awake drenched in sweat, lungs heaving, reaching for something solid to ground her. Every time, without fail, Rumi would stir. Even in her sleep, she moved instinctively toward Mira—pulling her closer, pressing her face into Mira’s hair until her trembling slowed. Mira never had to ask. Rumi was just there. Always there.
It was better now. The nights weren’t as suffocating. But there were still moments—still dreams that lingered too vividly, still shadows that clung.
And Rumi… Rumi had her own. Mira knew. She didn’t talk about them much, especially not the ones from lately, but Mira always noticed.
Mira had always been a lighter sleeper; she woke more easily. She’d pull Rumi into her arms, stroke her cheek or trace the patterns across her arms and back until her breath steadied, until the panic bled away. Mira would keep herself awake long after, listening to the gentle sound until it lulled her too. Mira never said anything the next morning. She didn’t need to. Rumi knew she knew.
Now, standing in the courtyard, Mira met Rumi’s eyes. There was no judgment there, only the kind of steady patience that never failed to undo her.
Mira exhaled slowly, gripping the haft of her glaive a fraction tighter. “I’m… managing,” she said at last, her voice rough but honest.
And Rumi just nodded, no pressing, no pushing—just that quiet presence that told Mira she wasn’t alone, no matter how sharp the memories still were.
It was a quiet kind of vow. One neither of them said aloud.
But they both kept it.
They put away their weapons in the storage racks by the courtyard wall, metal against wood ringing softly. Mira rolled her shoulders, working out the lingering tension from sparring. Rumi stretched her arms over her head, the line of her waist lengthening in a way that made Mira glance—then glance again, unable to stop herself. Sweat still clung to Rumi’s collarbone, catching the afternoon light.
They stepped out of the middle of the courtyard together, the air cooler under the overhanging eaves of the hanok. The compound spread around them in neat symmetry—dark wood beams, paper-paneled doors glowing with daylight, stone paths that curved toward gardens where pine trees twisted gracefully into the sky. The cicadas had quieted, replaced by the rustle of wind through bamboo and the faint sound of a stream trickling nearby.
Mira reached out without thinking, brushing her hand against Rumi’s until their fingers threaded together. Rumi squeezed back, her hand warm, grounding.
For a while, they just walked, letting the silence settle. Mira watched how Rumi carried herself—confident but unhurried, her long messy ponytail swinging with each step, her loose workout top clinging in damp patches that Mira’s eyes kept snagging on.
There’s something so alive about her, Mira thought. Even after everything. Especially after everything.
Rumi broke the quiet first, nudging Mira’s shoulder with her own. “You’re staring.”
Mira smirked, not bothering to deny it. “Maybe I am.”
That earned her a short laugh, low and warm, and the sound pulled something in Mira’s chest tighter.
They walked a few more steps before Rumi asked, “It feels so different being here now then when we were here years ago barely learning how to work together.”
Mira tilted her head, considering. “A little. A lot has changed, but some things have stayed the same,” she gestured at the garden path, the old stone lanterns, the cluster of cherry trees bowing in the breeze, “—the feel of this place. The energy.”
Rumi hummed in agreement. Then, with a sly smile, “I kind of miss back then how Zoey yelled at us to stop trying to kill each other, though, and actually meant it.”
The comment drew a real laugh out of Mira—sharp at first, then softening into chuckles she couldn’t quite rein in. “She still does that! God, she’s so dramatic.”
“Please,” Rumi shot back, grinning, “she only does it now because she knows she could never keep up with us.”
Mira snorted, shaking her head, their shoulders brushing as they walked. “Pretty sure she could take us both out if she actually wanted to.”
“Oh, for sure. She’s terrifying,” Rumi admitted with solemnity.
That broke them both into laughter, light and unguarded, echoing faintly. They reached the edge of the garden, pausing near a carved stone bench tucked beneath a persimmon tree heavy with fruit. Mira let herself sink down onto the bench, tugging Rumi down beside her with their still-linked hands.
Rumi flopped down with a sigh, tilting her head back to catch the breeze against her face. Mira let herself look again—at the curve of Rumi’s jaw, at the way strands of hair had slipped free and clung damply to her neck.
“You’re staring again,” Rumi murmured, eyes still closed.
Mira leaned in, brushing her thumb over Rumi’s knuckles. “Maybe I’m allowed to.”
This time, Rumi opened her eyes, gaze steady, softened by the curve of a smile. She squeezed Mira’s hand back, and the silence stretched long—but not heavy. Comfortable.
Then, unexpectedly, Rumi chuckled. “Remember Seoul three years ago? That outdoor concert where the sound system blew in the middle of my solo?”
Mira barked a laugh before she could stop herself. “How could I forget? You didn’t even flinch. Just kept singing like you owned the whole city.”
“I did own the city,” Rumi said smugly, then ruined it by grinning so wide Mira couldn’t stop herself from kissing the corner of her mouth quickly.
Rumi laughed again, softer this time, and leaned her head onto Mira’s shoulder. The compound around them was quiet except for the leaves shifting in the breeze, the faint creak of old wood. The air smelled faintly of pine and something floral carried in from the garden.
Rumi’s thumb brushed idly across Mira’s knuckles.
“You know,” Rumi murmured, voice low but playful, “I don’t think I’ve seen you this relaxed since… maybe the beach in Busan? Remember how Zoey kept falling asleep while laying out in the sun every five minutes?”
Mira huffed a laugh, the memory pulling at her. “She swore she wasn’t tired. Then I turn around, and she’s drooling onto her arm.”
“She almost got sunburned because of it!” Rumi added, tilting her head back enough to see Mira’s smile. “We had to drag her into the shade like some kind of overheated puppy.”
That coaxed another laugh out of Mira—real, bright, carried into the air before softening again. “God, we were a mess that day.”
“A good mess,” Rumi corrected gently, squeezing her hand again.
Mira glanced sideways at her, Rumi looked utterly at ease and devastatingly alive. Mira’s chest ached with the quiet force of it.
“Yeah,” Mira said after a moment, her voice steadier than she felt. “A good mess.”
A bird called out from the treeline, sharp and short, before the wind pushed through again, rustling the tall grass beyond the wall.
Rumi sighed, “Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever get back to that kind of simple quiet. Back before we were so… famous.”
Mira exhaled, not quite a sigh. “Maybe not simple,” she admitted. “But… something like it. Something ours.”
Rumi smiled faintly at that, lifting their joined hands and brushing her lips across Mira’s fingers. “I’ll take that.”
Mira swallowed, the quiet blooming warm in her chest. She leaned her head briefly against Rumi’s, closing her eyes for a beat longer than she meant to.
Rumi broke the silence with a sly grin in her voice. “You know, speaking of simple—our last concert was anything but. Tell me again how you almost tripped during the choreography?”
Mira’s head snapped toward her, scandalized. “I did not almost trip.”
“Oh, please,” Rumi said, lifting her head now, grin spreading wickedly. “If I hadn’t grabbed your arm, you would’ve faceplanted right into the stage.”
Mira narrowed her eyes. “That’s not how it happened.”
“That’s exactly how it happened.” Rumi’s laughter spilled out, unrestrained, and Mira couldn’t help the reluctant smile tugging at her own mouth.
Mira’s jaw dropped. “It was your fault!”
“My fault?” Rumi’s grin widened, infuriatingly smug.
“Yes!” Mira jabbed her finger toward her, their joined hands swinging between them. “You decided it’d be fun to get… bold in the middle of the routine. You leaned in—way closer than you were supposed to. Anyone would’ve been thrown off!”
Rumi’s smirk widened, her fangs peeking out. “Ohhh. So you’re admitting I distracted you?”
Mira could practically feel herself turning red. “That’s not what I said.”
“That’s exactly what you said,” Rumi countered, laughter spilling out. “Distracted you so bad you nearly forgot where your own feet were.”
Mira groaned, covering her face with her free hand. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet,” Rumi said, voice low and teasing now, “I’m still your favorite stage partner.”
Mira tried to scowl, but her lips betrayed her, curling into the faintest hint of a smile. “You’re insufferable,” she muttered, though her voice was soft.
Rumi leaned in just enough that Mira could feel the warmth of her breath brushing her lips. “And yet,” Rumi murmured, voice low and teasing, “you’re still holding my hand.”
Mira cursed herself silently for the helpless smile that spread across her face—she knew Rumi was right. And before she could think better of it, she pressed a quick, breathless kiss to Rumi’s lips, taking advantage of the closeness.
Rumi blinked in surprise, cheeks coloring faintly, before a wide, playful grin spread across her face.
“You’re never going to let me live that misstep down, are you?” Mira teased, her tone catching a little breathless laugh.
“Not a chance,” Rumi said, still catching her breath, a hint of pink lingering on her cheeks. She squeezed Mira’s hand gently, warmth radiating through their interlaced fingers. “That’s going in the memory vault forever. Right next to Zoey forgetting the lyrics during rehearsal and pretending she meant to improvise.”
Mira burst out laughing, the sound echoing across the quiet courtyard. “Oh my god, she was so bad! She just repeated the same line four times like we wouldn’t notice.”
“Classic Zoey,” Rumi agreed, eyes shining. “Her poker face didn’t even last ten seconds.”
Mira laughed, soft and unrestrained this time, shaking her head. “God, we really are a mess sometimes.”
Rumi shrugged, grinning, and gave her hand one more squeeze. “The best kind of mess.”
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The next day was Rumi’s birthday.
They woke together in the pale dawn light, the room still wrapped in the soft hush of early morning. Mira stirred first. Rumi could feel her from where her head rested against her chest. Mira brushed a stray strand of hair from Rumi’s face, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of her head, then tilted down to catch her lips in the gentlest kiss.
“Happy birthday, my love,” Mira whispered.
Her voice was so soft, so achingly warm, that Rumi’s chest tightened before she could form words. All she managed was a husky, half-mumbled, “Thanks,” her voice still rough with sleep. She tightened her arm around Mira’s waist, feeling like she wanted to stay there forever.
They’d talked the night before about what she wanted to do today. Mira had listened with that fierce attentiveness of hers, agreeing without hesitation. Mira had promised her anything—just whatever Rumi wanted.
That quiet devotion left Rumi sometimes questioning why the universe had handed her someone so patient, so steady, so endlessly loving. She couldn’t shake the occasional thought: what had she done to deserve this? To deserve her? Mira, Zoey, Bobby… a family she hadn’t even realized she’d been craving until it was hers.
Eventually, they rose and dressed quietly, the room still steeped in that tender hush. Rumi pulled on a loose cream hoodie, paired with dark joggers and her scuffed sneakers. Mira wore soft black pants that cut just above her ankles, and a light-blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, casual but perfectly her—clean, understated, and beautiful. Half of her hair was twisted into a bun that still managed to look regal. Rumi had defaulted to her usual long braid down her back.
Like her mother’s.
Celine was nowhere to be seen when they stepped out into the courtyard. The air was cool, the stone paths damp with dew, and rows of Gukwha flowers swayed faintly in the breeze. Rumi paused, gaze sweeping the white and pale yellow blossoms. She knew how much care Celine poured into them—flowers meant for remembrance, for paying respects. Without a word, she crouched and cut a few stems, handling them with care before straightening again. Mira didn’t speak, only fell into step beside her as they continued on.
The rising sun began painting streaks of pink and gold across the sky as they took the long dirt-and-gravel path toward the hill above the compound. The nameless graveyard.
Rumi knew this place well. Too well. She’d spent so many days of her early childhood here, long before she’d even understood the truth of it. That they were graves who belonged to Hunters, spanning generations—most taken too soon, their markers simple, the sacrifice they’d made both silent and immense. Very few had been granted the luxury of dying in bed, in peace.
That was the risk their lives entailed. But one they had all been willing to sacrifice for. To save others who did not know the dangers that existed out there.
At the threshold of the graveyard, she stopped. The tree-lined path opened into the clearing beyond, and her breath caught against her ribs. Mira’s fingers brushed against hers, squeezing gently. A silent reassurance.
The graveyard was protected. Always had been. Demons couldn’t cross into this ground. They would have torn such a sanctuary apart otherwise.
But Rumi had—many times. She was part demon, after all. A walking contradiction. She had tested these boundaries with her very existence. She had crossed this threshold countless times with that truth woven into her body, her blood. And some small, gnawing part of her wondered if that sanctuary had been fractured the night she ripped the honmoon apart. If she had poisoned this place without even realizing.
Mira didn’t say a word, only tugged her hand lightly, urging her forward. Her eyes were enough: you’re okay. You belong here.
Rumi stepped forward.
The main path wove through the valley of graves, hills rising on either side, dotted with markers and small footpaths. Wildflowers dotted the grass, stone walls curving in quiet partitions. It was a place of loss, but also of peace.
Celine had retired to be its caretaker once she was sure HUNTR/X could carry on without her. But even now, she straddled two worlds—the living and the dead, the business of idols and the legacy of hunters.
Rumi’s feet slowed again at the fork in the path. To the side stood the massive zelkova tree, its bark worn smooth with time, its branches draped with bright ribbons and ritual markers. The breeze set them swaying, clacking softly together in almost song. The tree had stood here longer than memory. It was sacred to the hunters—the place where the first Hunter had fallen to Gwi-Ma’s demons, her name long lost to history.
Rumi’s throat tightened. This was the tree where she herself had nearly died. The same place she had once begged Celine to let her die, her sword trembling in her hands, her face wet with tears.
Mira’s gaze flicked to her, reading the moment with that uncanny depth. She knew the truth of that night, the unbearable weight of it. Rumi had admitted it to her several weeks after it had happened.
Mira followed her gaze to the tree, and when she spoke her voice was soft, careful. “Do you need a moment?” Her thumb stroked across Rumi’s knuckles, grounding her.
Rumi kept her eyes on the tree, the ribbons dancing in the morning air. The sound they made was almost like a song, fragile but unbroken.
“I’m okay,” Rumi said at last. The words surprised her by how steady they felt. And for the first time, she truly believed them.
She was okay. More than okay.
Because she wasn’t alone anymore. Because she had people like Zoey and Bobby who saw her for everything she was—all of her—and stayed.
And she had Mira. Mira, who had traced and memorized every shimmering pattern across her skin.
Who looked at them and called them breathtaking and beautiful.
Who looked at her not like she was fractured, but like she was everything.
Who kissed them reverently, like they were holy instead of monstrous.
Who kissed her like she was the whole world.
Rumi looked up into Mira’s brown eyes, catching the worry and the overwhelming tenderness there. Those rich brown eyes, warm and steady, full of love. Love just for her.
Rumi smiled, small but sure. “Let’s keep going.”
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Rumi led her down the path with steady fingers, their hands still twined together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Mira followed without question, her pulse beating oddly fast, though she told herself it was only because of how quiet the compound felt this early.
The path curved and narrowed until it opened into a small clearing near the edge of the grounds. That was when Mira saw it: a modest grave, simple and unadorned, but beautiful in its restraint. An elegant white stone stood upright in the earth, etched only with a name and two dates:
Ryu Mi-yeoung
At its base rested the remnants of what had clearly been offerings. A clay pot, blackened with the ash of incense long burned out. A slender vase that held gukwha blossoms, the petals curling slightly at the edges but still dignified in their fading.
Mira’s throat tightened as she realized how recently they had been placed there. Celine, most likely.
Rumi slowed, her grip on Mira’s hand loosening before she finally let go. She sank to her knees in front of the stone, movement careful, reverent. Mira lowered herself as well, but just behind her—close enough to bear witness, far enough not to intrude on what wasn’t hers to claim.
“Hi, Mom,” Rumi said softly. The words were simple, but her voice cracked in a way that made Mira’s chest ache.
Rumi reached for the vase, gently removing the old flowers and replacing them with the fresh ones she’d brought. White and yellow blooms, bright even in the dim predawn. She struck a lighter with practiced ease, touched the flame to two sticks of incense, and planted them into the waiting pot, where they began to curl smoke skyward.
She hesitated then, chewing at her lip, before glancing over her shoulder. Her gaze locked with Mira’s, bright and unsteady all at once.
Her voice trembled, but she pressed forward. “I, uh… brought someone for you to meet this time.” She glanced over her shoulder, her gaze finding Mira’s. “This is Mira. I’ve told you a lot about her over the years and, well… I—I love her. I’m in love with her.”
The words sat in the air like a vow, trembling but unshakable.
The breath caught in Mira’s throat, though warmth flushed through her too quickly to hold back. Despite every time she said those words, Mira could never get used to hearing them. Hearing how Rumi said them.
Mira bowed her head toward the gravestone. “It’s an honor, Ms. Ryu,” she said quietly. Her voice was steady, formal with respect, though a warmth lingered beneath it. She tilted her head, a soft smile pulling at her lips. “But I do have to correct your daughter. I believe I’m in love with her.”
Rumi let out a startled, breathless laugh—half choked, half incredulous—as if she hadn’t expected Mira to volley back even here. “God,” she whispered. “I don’t deserve you.”
Mira’s smile softened, helpless. “You have my soul and I have yours, remember?”
“I know,” Rumi replied softly, smiling despite the tears shining in her eyes.
For a breath they knelt there, looking at each other. So much had happened between them.
Then, Rumi’s hand rose quickly to wipe at the tears already stinging her eyes. Her shoulders shook with emotion, but her smile was radiant, like sunlight breaking through rain. “Well… um… a lot has happened this past year.”
The words opened a floodgate.
Mira mostly listened, watching as Rumi stumbled through telling her mother about them. She began telling everything—haltingly at first, then with more certainty. About the long years of friendship that had shifted into something deeper. About how Mira had been there in every moment, in every silence and storm. How over time Rumi finally realized what this feeling was. How they were finally forced to confront each other about their feelings.
About their first kiss, sweet and tender in LA overlooking the bioluminescence on the ocean waves. Their first date, awkward and sweet, sharing dinner and then walking along the lake under dim streetlamps. About the early mornings spent side by side training until sweat plastered their clothes, and the late nights tangled together in front of old movies, too tired to move.
Mira added her own pieces, her voice weaving into the tale. She confessed to falling first—how she had known, quietly, before Rumi could name it herself. Mira had been gone before she even realized it, caught by Rumi’s fire, her focus, the way her laughter always carved space into Mira’s chest where air had been hard to come by.
They painted the picture together, weaving their story as if they were performing a duet as the Honmoon shimmered into being around them as if agreeing to the tale of their woven lives together.
They spoke of how they had onstage not long ago, in front of thousands, and how the roar of the crowd had nearly drowned out the pounding of her own heart. They spoke of Zoey being the captain of their relationship, nudging them both forward when they were too afraid to leap. Of Bobby, who had taken on the quiet role of father, always there with love when they needed grounding. And even of Celine, who—despite her sternness—had offered her own kind of support in the shadows.
At that name, Rumi faltered. The words caught in her throat, her shoulders tightening. Mira noticed the pause immediately, the slight shift in her expression. She didn’t push because she knew what lay beneath—the things unsaid.
The new Honmoon. Jinu’s death. Rumi’s patterns being revealed on live television. Celine’s admission. Jinah’s return. The truth of Rumi’s bloodline that stretched back to the first Hunter and the battle against Gwi-Ma.
All of that remained heavy on her tongue, too sharp to release into the quiet peace of this place. Mira understood enough to know that it was heavy. Too heavy to lay down here all at once.
A tear slipped from Rumi’s cheek, hitting the earth just in front of the stone. Her shoulders shook slightly, though she kept her gaze fixed forward.
“You want a moment alone?” Mira asked softly, her hand brushing Rumi’s shoulder in reassurance.
Rumi nodded, still unable to speak past the tightness in her throat.
Mira bowed again toward the gravestone, her voice low and sincere. “It was an honor to meet you, Ms. Ryu.” She leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of Rumi’s head before slowly rising to her feet.
“I’ll meet you back down at the compound,” she murmured, her hand brushing once more along Rumi’s shoulder, reluctant to let go but knowing she must. “Take all the time you need.”
—————————————————————————
The moment Mira’s footsteps faded back down the path, Rumi exhaled shakily. The clearing felt heavier without her, like all the silence pressed in at once. She stared at the gravestone, the name carved into the white stone, and found herself fiddling with the lighter still warm in her hand.
“...I don’t even know where to start,” she admitted softly. Her voice cracked, and she immediately dropped her eyes.
Her hands tightened together in her lap. “But there’s so much you don’t know. Everything I’ve learned this past year about me and about what’s really in our blood. About what you kept from me—or maybe tried to protect me from.” She drew in a breath, shoulders trembling. “I found out. About our ancestors. About being half-demon and half-Hunter. About why everything always felt like it was waiting for me to break.”
Her throat worked, words catching. “And I found out about Celine… it was her. She’s the one who—” Rumi stopped, unable to force the word out. Her jaw clenched, then she tried again, voice smaller. “She’s the one who killed you. I’ve carried that around in my chest for months now, pretending like I don’t think about it every single day. Pretending like I can look at her and not want to scream at her for taking you away despite being told it was because you couldn’t control it.”
Her shoulders shook, but she pressed her palms into her thighs, grounding herself. “And then there’s Mira. God… I think you would’ve loved her. She’s stubborn and loud and bossy and so, so good in all the ways I never thought I deserved. She makes me want things. A future. A life that isn’t just fighting, or surviving, or trying to pay for these patterns that I carry. I didn’t think that was even possible for me.”
She bent forward until her forehead touched the cool stone, tears falling freely now. “I wish you could’ve met her for real. I wish you could tell me you’re proud of me. Or that you forgive me. Or that I’m not screwing this all up.”
Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. “Because some nights, I feel like that scared little kid again. The one who didn’t understand why I never met you. The one who didn’t understand why she had these marks. Why she had to hide. And I don’t know if I’ll ever stop being her.”
She stayed there, pressed against the stone, tears streaking down her cheeks, incense smoke curling around her like a shroud.
“When I found out the truth of what happened to you—how it all went down in the end—I asked…” Rumi’s voice broke, the words clawing their way out of her chest. “I asked how my story was supposed to be any different than yours. Than all the Hunters who came before us. And you know what Celine said?”
Her throat tightened, but she pushed through. “She said it’s because of her. Because of Mira. That beautiful girl with the red hair and the impossible laugh. The one who somehow always knows exactly what I need before I even ask.”
Her lips curved faintly, trembling. “I don’t know when it happened, or exactly how, but she—she owns my soul. She’s my melody. The one keeping me here. Steady. Strong. Constant.”
Rumi drew a shaky breath, pressing her palm against the stone as if it could tether her. “Part of me almost wishes you had that too. That you’d found someone who did that for you. And part of me… part of me feels guilty that I couldn’t have been that for you.”
Her eyes slipped shut, the tears falling faster. “I know that’s unrealistic. I wasn’t even a year old when you left. Therapy’s helping me remember that.” A humorless laugh shook out of her. “But still. I can’t stop thinking it.”
Her forehead touched the cool stone again. “I’m sorry.”
—————————————————————————
True to her word, Mira waited at the edge of Celine’s hanok compound. The wooden gate stood half-shadowed beneath the slanting afternoon sun, cicadas humming in the quiet beyond the walls. Celine had found her not long after Mira arrived back, her face unreadable, her voice even as she’d said she was going into town to fetch groceries. Nothing more.
Mira had only nodded, not offering to go with her—though the thought had flickered through her mind. But she knew better. Celine wasn’t the type to expect company, and Mira wasn’t about to force it. Especially with Celine.
So she waited. And waiting meant remembering.
Her thoughts wandered first to the raw months that had followed the Idol Awards—the moment everything she thought she knew about Rumi splintered. The revelation of her half-demon blood. The shock. The ache of betrayal. How she and Zoey had turned on her, not out of hate, but because the weight of the lies had crushed them. Mira still remembered the look in Rumi’s eyes—shattered, pleading. It haunted her.
And then Gwi-ma. The battle that had nearly torn all of them apart but united them stronger then ever.
But afterward… afterward there had been nights. Quiet, fragile nights full of broken confessions. Rumi admitting she had gone to Celine and asked her to end it all. Mira’s throat tightened at the memory even now, standing in the moonlight in Rumi’s room as she quietly admitted to her what had happened.
And then there was the opposite—the reckless moments. Mira throwing herself between death and Rumi without hesitation. Her body paying the price. That wound across her side, the jagged scar carved like a permanent reminder, still ached at the end of long days. She doubted it would ever vanish completely, but she was grateful to be standing at all.
They had shut each other out after that. It had been easier to lock their hearts away than to let them break again. The silence between them had grown louder and heavier until it shattered—until Mira’s walls shattered—in that park, from Romance’s taunts.
But afterward had come the flood. More confessions. Rumi tearing down the walls Mira had spent her entire life building. Then the world tour—their victory and their exhaustion. And then Jinah, the third Sunlight Sister crashing into their lives like a storm, stirring truths they hadn’t dared touch. Questions Mira didn’t know they should have been asking. Rumi’s heritage. Their future.
They had survived all of it. Somehow. In just one year.
Mira tilted her head back, eyes tracing the green crowns of the trees beyond the walls. For a fleeting moment she let herself wonder—what would the next year bring?
The sound of gravel crunching underfoot pulled her back to the present. Her head snapped toward the path on instinct, her pulse leaping before she even saw her. Rumi.
She was walking toward her slowly, shoulders slightly hunched as though the air itself weighed heavy. The light caught the red rims of her eyes—it was clear she’d been crying. Her hair was mussed from the breeze, her lips pressed into the kind of line that said she was still trying to hold herself together.
Mira pushed off the wall where she’d been leaning, her body moving before her thoughts could catch up. Rumi’s gaze flicked up at the motion, and for a moment their eyes caught—something raw and wordless passing between them.
By the time Rumi reached her, Mira didn’t need to say anything. She simply opened her arms.
Rumi folded into her chest without hesitation. Mira’s arms closed around her, strong and sure, pulling her in. She buried her nose into the soft crown of Rumi’s hair, breathing her in, grounding herself in the familiar scent of lavender and something distinctly Rumi.
Rumi tucked into her neck like it was the only safe place left in the world.
And Mira held her tighter, as if letting go wasn’t an option.
She didn’t cry. Not this time. But Mira felt the change in her all the same—the faint shudder of a breath leaving her chest, the way the tautness in her shoulders softened beneath Mira’s hold. Slowly, carefully, the rigid line of her spine unwound, and some of the storm seemed to bleed out of her body.
They stood there in silence, the cicadas humming above them, the scent of incense still clinging faintly to Rumi’s hair. Mira didn’t rush her. She never would. She just held on, steady and unyielding, until Rumi finally shifted.
After a long minute, Rumi eased back. Her hands slid away from Mira’s sides reluctantly, as if letting go took effort. Her eyes, though rimmed red, held a fragile steadiness.
Mira searched her face, then asked softly, “How was it?”
Rumi gave a small nod, her voice quiet but certain. “It’s what I needed.”
Something uncoiled in Mira’s chest at that, relief threading through her veins. “Good,” she murmured, her lips curving into the faintest smile. “I’m glad.”
She pulled her back into a brief, firm hug—less desperate than the first, more grounding. Just long enough to remind Rumi she was here, that she wasn’t going anywhere. When she drew back this time, her hand lingered at the small of Rumi’s back before falling away.
Mira’s eyes softened as she took her in. The fading daylight caught on Rumi’s hair, on the delicate slope of her cheek, highlighting the faint tear-streaks she hadn’t bothered to wipe away. Mira resisted the urge to reach up and brush them off herself.
Eventually, they drifted together inside.
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The rest of Rumi’s birthday had been quiet but full. Celine had cooked an elaborate dinner, the kind where half the table overflowed with side dishes and Mira had teased that they’d need three more people just to finish it all. The three of them spent the evening in the courtyard, eating, sharing stories, and pretending for just a little while that they weren’t Hunters or half-demons or women carrying scars of things no one else could possibly understand. Zoey called partway through from her own trip to LA and joined in on the conversations for a while. Bobby had even called briefly to wish a simple happy birthday to Rumi.
By the time the sky deepened into indigo and the cicadas quieted, Mira caught the weariness beginning to creep into Rumi’s eyes. She pressed a gentle kiss to her temple and urged her inside. “Go on. You’ve had a long day. I’ll be there in bit after talking a little more.”
Rumi looked like she might protest, the words forming in her eyes before they ever reached her lips—but the weight of the day had finally caught up to her. With a soft sigh, she leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to the crown of Mira’s head. “Don’t stay too long.”
“I won’t,” Mira murmured, tilting her face up just enough to catch the warmth in Rumi’s gaze before she turned away and headed inside.
Mira didn’t stand yet, rooted in the courtyard with the night air cool against her skin.
Celine’s gaze lingered on her for a moment from where she sat nearby. Her sharp eyes softened by something that looked almost like understanding. After a beat, she spoke quietly, “Be sure to bring her flowers.”
Mira wasn’t surprised that Celine had guessed what she was doing.
“I will,” Mira promised, the words more like a vow than a casual reply.
Celine’s lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. She gave a single nod before standing and disappearing into her room, leaving Mira alone beneath the lantern glow and the hush of the summer night.
Mira found herself walking the lantern-lit path back up the hillside, a few of the gukwha flowers clutched in her hand. The air grew cooler as she reached the clearing where Miyeoung’s grave lay.
She crouched low and added the flowers to the ones Rumi had left earlier that day, brushing her fingers over the cool stone. “Happy birthday to your daughter,” she whispered, her throat tight.
For a moment, she only listened to the sigh of the trees above. Then she drew in a deep breath, her heart pounding.
“Look… I don’t know if you’ve ever had someone other than Celine come here and talk to you about her,” Mira began, her voice unsteady but honest. “And I don’t know if this is weird or not. But she feels such a strong connection to this place, to you. So—I’m going to tell you.”
The words spilled from her slowly at first, then steadier, like a rhythm she couldn’t stop once it began.
“Your daughter… Rumi is extraordinary. She’s strong in ways I can’t even explain. Smart, sharp-witted, brave enough to face things that would break most people. And she’s stunning—God, she’s beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes a room pause when she walks in. Not just because of her looks, but because of who she is. She carries light, even when she doesn’t see it herself.” Mira’s lips trembled into a smile as she continued.
“She puts everyone else before herself, even when it costs her. She’ll fight tooth and nail for the people she loves, and somehow still has the gentleness to pick up the pieces afterward. I… I don’t know if you’d be proud of me saying this, but I love her. I love her so much it scares me sometimes. I’d do anything for her. Give anything. Sacrifice it all if it meant she got to live and be free and happy.”
Her throat ached, but she pressed on. “She deserves everything good this world has left to give. And I swear to you—I’ll do everything I can to protect that. To protect her.”
Mira sat back on her heels, wiping at her eyes before the tears could fall. A long silence stretched over the clearing, heavy but not empty. It felt like the grave itself was listening as the Honmoon rippled around it.
Finally, she rose and brushed the dirt from her palms. She gave the flowers one last lingering glance, then turned and began the descent down the path, back toward the warm glow of the compound lights below.
The clearing fell still again after she left, save for the rustle of branches in the night breeze. For a moment, it seemed utterly silent.
Then the Honmoon rippled around the grave, casting shadows of purples, blues, and pinks.
Then—
A note. Hanging in the air like a thread spun from something sacred.
A melody.
Ohhhh.
The voice rose into a crescendo—gorgeous, chilling. And then, it slowly drifted back down, tapering off at the end into nothingness.
“You know the sun never sets.”
“It casts its light on what’s left…”
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