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The first knife disappears on a Tuesday.
Of course it's a Tuesday. Nothing truly cursed ever happens on a fun day like Friday. It's always some random weekday in the middle of schedules and deadlines and too many group chats.
We're on patrol, cutting through a narrow back alley that smells like fried oil and rain. One of those in-between streets behind chicken joints and karaoke rooms, where the neon signs leak color onto the wet pavement and the air tastes like old smoke and fryer grease. My sneakers squelch every few steps, socks probably ruined, but whatever. The city is humming, and under the hum is the Honmoon.
Rumi is in front, shoulders squared, hoodie up over her violet hair, humming some half-finished melody under her breath like she's daring anything to jump out at us. Her steps are light but sure, every movement coiled, ready. That's Rumi all over, one half tired idol, one half loaded weapon.
Mira hangs back near me, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets, eyes scanning the rooftops and every shadowed doorway. She looks like she's just walking home from rehearsal, but I can feel the tension radiating off her, a taut wire. Her aura brushes against mine, razor-sharp and cool, like the moment right before a blade strikes.
The city feels… off.
Not just normal demons existing off. Skewed. Tilted.
The Honmoon is a low, steady thrum in my chest, like bass through floorboards from a club three floors down. The barrier shimmers at the edge of my senses, stretching over Seoul like a domed halo, soft from the outside, carved glass from the inside. We bled for that thing. Literally. You don't just forget that kind of pain. Sometimes when it pulses too hard, my knees remember what it was like to hit that ritual floor.
"You're spacing," Mira says quietly beside me.
Her voice slides through the alley noise like a clean cut.
"I'm always spacing," I mutter, kicking a dented can out of the way. It rattles ahead of us, metallic and loud. "It's part of my charm. I'm, like, seventy percent daydreams, thirty percent caffeine."
She gives me a look. One of those flat, unimpressed Mira looks that still manages to knock my heartbeat out of rhythm because she notices. Always notices the things I'm trying not to show. "I meant your aura."
I wrinkle my nose. "You say that like I don't totally know what my aura is doing."
"You don't," she says, simple and sure. "Not tonight."
The way she says it makes something in my chest pull tight. My fingers twitch at my sides. For a second, I almost ask, What do you see? But then the part of me that hates sounding weak kicks in and slams the door.
Before I can come up with a smart-ass answer, the Honmoon spikes.
It's like someone hits a gong behind my eyes. A wave of wrongness rolls in from the east side of the city, oily and cold, sliding under my skin. The back of my neck prickles. Rumi stops dead mid-step, head tilting sharply toward the river, her hoodie slipping just enough to show the tense line of her jaw. Her pupils dilate, swallowing color.
"Got it?" she asks.
Her voice is too calm. That's how I know it's bad.
"Yeah," I say, even though my stomach drops like an elevator cut loose. I close my eyes for half a second, letting the Honmoon current push through me. It's dank, hungry, clustered. "East. Near the river. Big cluster. Gross vibe. Smells like… rotten static in there."
Mira exhales through her nose, a long, quiet sigh. "Demons can't take one night off, huh?"
"Crime doesn't sleep," I chirp automatically, because my mouth defaults to stupid when I'm nervous. "Demons don't either. Lucky us. At least they're consistent."
Rumi's gaze flicks back to me for half a second, and I feel the weight of it settle on my shoulders. Leader gaze. Worried best friend gaze. Part-demon-who-is-trying-her-best gaze. We've got a lot of gazes in this group, and I keep collecting them like badges I'm not sure I deserve.
"You good?" she asks.
The question is simple. The pressure behind it isn't. "Peachy," I lie, forcing a grin so big my cheeks hurt. "Let's go save Seoul and then maybe get tteokbokki. I will personally fight God if we don't get tteokbokki after this."
She huffs, almost a laugh, and then nods. That's all she needs. That's all she thinks she needs. She trusts me. That's the worst part.
We move.
We're sprinting toward the river, the Honmoon humming louder with each step, a shared heartbeat between the three of us. I feel it pulsing along invisible threads, Rumi's aura like molten steel, Mira's like a sharpened blade, mine like lightning trying to pick a direction and not commit to any of them.
This part is supposed to be simple. Summon weapons. Fight demons. Win. Go home and try to write a hit song before the Idol Awards eat us alive on live TV.
Easy.
I try not to think about how the last three drafts of lyrics I've written all sound wrong, like someone else's song wearing my handwriting.
We skid to a stop on an overpass overlooking the river. The wind hits us first, cold and wet, snapping at our clothes. The water below is black and restless, reflecting the smeared colors of city lights. A whole nest of demons claws at the underside of the bridge, shadows peeling away from concrete like they were painted on and decided to walk out of the mural.
Jagged teeth. Too many limbs. Eyes like static-filled screens flicking on and off. All that fun stuff.
Rumi's sword flashes into existence in a burst of shimmering light, runes glinting along the blade like little suns dancing in the steel. The air crackles around her, every strand of her hair lifting slightly.
Mira's cleaver follows, sleek and deadly, golden along the edge with Honmoon light. It curves in her hand like it was made for her and only her, the glow tracing the muscles in her arms, painting her in sharp highlights and shadow.
I throw my hand out, ready to call my knives.
Usually, it's instinct. I don't think, I just reach. The Honmoon rushes into my fingers, and six shimmering blades answer, appearing around me like a halo. They're mine. They've always been mine. Sharper than words, faster than thought.
Tonight, they don't come.
Not right away.
There's a split-second of silence in my body, like the space between heartbeats but stretched too long. The Honmoon current catches, snags.
Useless, something whispers in the back of my mind. A voice like oil over water. Took you long enough to break.
Then, with a stuttering flicker, four blades appear, hovering around me in a ring of pale blue light.
Four.
Not six.
What the hell?
The gap where the other two should be yawns open in my awareness like missing teeth. My breath catches. The Honmoon thrum in my chest wobbles, then steadies, like it's pretending nothing happened.
"Zo?" Rumi's voice snaps like a whip, sharp and urgent. "We need you!"
"I've got them," I say too quickly. My voice sounds almost normal, just a little too high at the end. I grab the nearest knife out of the air, the familiar weight settling into my palm, but it feels… thinner. Less anchored. Like it's here on a trial basis.
There's no time to think. No time to count again. The demons are already swarming up the side of the bridge, claws scraping concrete, teeth gnashing. One launches itself onto the overpass railing, jaws stretching in a wet, glitching snarl.
Rumi moves first, a shout tearing from her throat as she launches herself into the fray. Her sword arcs in a blinding line of light, cleaving through the first demon's torso. Shadow-flesh dissolves into smoke and ash, torn apart by Honmoon energy.
Mira drops low, slides under another demon's swinging limb, and comes up with her cleaver slicing in a clean, brutal arc that severs three heads in one motion. She moves like a dancer sharpened into a weapon, every pivot and step choreographed violence.
I do what I've trained for.
I fling a knife at the nearest demon's eye. The blade sinks in with a satisfying crunch, the demon shrieks and disintegrates.
Another knife flies, pinning a clawed hand to the asphalt. I flip over the railing, drop onto the lower level, feel my knees jolt, and send the third blade spinning into a demon's open maw, silencing its shriek mid-screech.
Three knives, three clean hits. Muscle memory. This is the part of myself that still makes sense.
I reach for my fourth and it flickers in the air, halfway to my hand, then winks out of existence.
Just gone.
Like a shitty magic trick with no punchline.
My heart stutters so hard my vision blurs for a second. The Honmoon inside me flares in protest, then… pulls back. Retreats. Like it's hitting some invisible wall.
See? the oily voice purrs. Too much and not enough at the same time. How balanced of you.
I force my face blank, jaw locking tight. There's no time, no time, no time. I yank one of the first knives out of a dissolving demon's forehead, black smoke curling around my wrist, and keep going.
"Zoey!" Mira's voice cuts through the chaos. I glance up to see her glance flick past me, eyes narrowing for half a second like she caught the moment the knife disappeared. Her mouth presses into a thin line, but she doesn't call me on it. Not here. Not while a demon is trying to eat souls around us like a forbidden vending machine.
"I'm fine!" I yell back, because if I say it loud enough, maybe it'll drown out the panic scraping at my ribs. I hurl the reclaimed knife at another target, and it lands home. That has to count for something.
It's probably a fluke, I tell myself. Weird energy. Honmoon static. Mercury is in retrograde. Whatever. Cosmic Wi-Fi glitch. It happens.
We fight until the nest is nothing but ash and echoes. Until the screams fade to sobs, and then relieved silence, and then just the steady rush of the river again. Rumi's shoulders sag as she lets her sword dissolve into light. Mira's cleaver flickers out in her hand, golden edge breaking into sparks.
My knives vanish one by one as the last traces of demon energy fade. I try not to notice how my fingertips feel weirdly empty when they go, like they're taking more than they usually do on the way out.
I don't mention any of it when we walk home later, sweat cooling under our clothes, sneakers scuffing the pavement. My hoodie sticks to the back of my neck, damp and itchy. The sky is that sickly in-between color you get from light pollution and low clouds. Seoul hums around us like nothing happened.
Rumi asks if I'm okay twice, once as we leave the river, once as we pass the convenience store on the corner near our building.
The first time, I flash her a grin and say, "Yeah, just regretting not stretching before parkour. My thighs are filing a formal complaint."
The second time, I grab a can of cold coffee from the convenience store fridge, slam it down at the register, and say, "If I say I'm great, will you let me drink this at midnight?"
She rolls her eyes, mutters something about my caffeine addiction, but lets it go. Because I always bounce back. That's my role. The chaos goblin. The gremlin. The one who makes it all look like a joke.
Mira walks on my other side, just close enough that our sleeves brush now and then. She doesn't say anything. Doesn't ask the question. But I can feel her watching me like she's trying to solve an equation where the answer used to be obvious and now suddenly isn't.
I pretend not to notice.
Because if I notice, I'll have to admit that something's wrong.
And if I admit something's wrong, I have to admit that maybe, just maybe.
I'm the weak link.
The lyrics die three days later.
We're in the practice room, the one with the padlocked door and the soundproofed walls and the slightly haunted vibe. The floor still smells faintly like sweat and industrial cleaner, like every trainee ghost who's ever died in here trying to hit a high note. Our studio monitors sit under a string of fairy lights Rumi pretends she hates and never takes down. One of them has burned out so there's an awkward dark gap, but she keeps saying we'll "totally fix it this weekend" and then never does.
A mess of notebooks, empty coffee cups, crumpled snack wrappers, and the remains of a convenience store on the table. There's a smear of tteokbokki sauce on the corner of my lyric book that looks like a bloodstain if I squint.
The Idol Awards submission deadline blinks at us from Rumi's laptop like it's personally offended we haven't sent anything yet.
"Okay," Rumi says, leaning back in her chair, fingers drumming on the desk in a rhythm that's almost a beat. "We have the base track. We have the chorus idea. We have exactly…" She checks the time and winces. "Way too little time."
Her eyes are ringed with the faintest circles of exhaustion, a mix of demon patrol and idol schedules. Rumi tired is still terrifyingly competent. It's unfair.
Mira is stretched out on the floor, spine pressed to the wood, one leg bent, one leg straight, rolling her ankle like she's silently choreographing even when she pretends she's resting. She flexes her shoulders and rolls her neck, joints cracking softly.
"Choreo is not happening until we know the structure," she says. "I can't build around a question mark."
"Which we will," Rumi says firmly, spinning halfway around in her chair to look at me. "Because our mastermind lyricist will breathe, remember she's a prodigy, and then write something that makes the whole world cry and scream and give us all their votes."
She looks at me with absolute faith.
It lands in my chest like a stone and a hug at the same time. Heavy and warm. I swear I can almost hear the Honmoon hum a little louder between us, agreeing with her.
No pressure.
I twirl a pen between my fingers, spinning it over my knuckles the way I used to in math class when I was bored out of my skull instead of trying to save the city and my best friend's soul. The pen clacks softly every time it hits my ring.
Staring back at me from the table, a blank page.
My notebook is full of half-phrases, abandoned metaphors, scribbles scratched out so hard the paper tore. A graveyard of almosts.
Normally, words pour out of me like somebody turned on a faucet and lost the handle. They keep me up at night, lines lining up in my head, demanding to exist. I make sense of my chaos in verses and hooks and weird pre-chorus bridges that Rumi pretends are too long and then secretly loves.
Usually, it's like my brain is a crowded club and the lyrics are shoving each other to get to the mic.
Today, my brain is…static. White noise. The echo you get when you open a door to an empty room and expect a crowd.
"So," I say brightly, because brightness is easier than honesty. "We want…hopeful, right? But not cheesy. Intense, but not too dark. Something that says 'hey, the world might explode, but at least we look hot'."
Rumi snorts, shoulders relaxing a millimeter. "Exactly."
Mira lifts her head just enough to look at me, smirking. "We are not putting 'at least we look hot' in the lyrics."
"I said like that," I protest. "Metaphorically."
"Metaphorically," she echoes, unconvinced, letting her head drop back down with a soft thump. Her hair fans out around her like a halo that has seen better days.
"Look," Rumi says, rolling her chair closer until her knee bumps mine. She reaches over and squeezes my knee. Her palm is warm, grounding. "You always find it. Start from us."
Start from us.
The words sink in deep, into that place where the Honmoon sits behind my ribs like a star we swallowed on accident.
I close my eyes.
I see Rumi standing in front of a demon twice her size, sword crackling with hellfire and Honmoon light, chin raised like she's daring it to try her. I see the moment she grinned at us after the barrier went up the first time, like she couldn't believe we were still there, like she didn't think she deserved it and was relieved we hadn't noticed.
I see Mira between us in training, jaw tight, sweat dripping down her neck, pushing herself past exhaustion because she refuses to let either of us fall. The way her hands shake after the worst battles when she thinks we aren't looking. The way she always positions herself just half a step closer to danger.
I see late-night convenience store runs and cramped dressing rooms and three futons shoved together for comfort instead of space. Rumi's sleepy humming, Mira's soft muttering in her dreams, the weight of their bodies bracketing mine when nightmares get bad.
I feel the Honmoon, warm and steady, braided between our souls like we're three strands in the same rope.
A line almost surfaces. I feel it, like a fish tugging at a hook, like the beginning of a verse curling up from my chest, and then something slams into it from the inside.
You're too loud, a voice whispers, curling cold fingers around my throat. Too much. Too messy. No one wants to hear you anymore.
My hand jerks. The pen scratches aimlessly across the paper, carving a jagged dark line that cuts through three blank lines and into the margin.
"Zo?" Mira's voice is suddenly sharp, not the lazy teasing one from a second ago. "You spaced."
My heart is pounding too hard. I peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth.
"I'm fine," I say. The word feels like a lie and a prayer at the same time. "Just…trying out ideas."
I angle the notebook away from them a little, like that will somehow hide the complete nothing happening on the page.
Rumi leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes searching my face. "Want to throw lines at us? We can help shape them. Or be your test audience. Or brutal critics, if you're into that."
"Uh…" I stare at the notebook. The page stares back. "Not yet. They're…shy."
Mira pushes herself up on her elbows, brow knitting. "Your lines are never shy."
"They're having a crisis," I say, forcing a laugh that comes out too high. "They'll get therapy and come back. It's fine."
It's not fine.
Because now that I'm listening, the static in my head isn't just static. It's that voice. Every time I reach for a word, a melody, a feeling, it's there.
You're only useful if you're perfect.
Rumi trusts you with this because she thinks you're special. She's wrong.
You screw this up, they lose everything.
My stomach twists. I flip to a new page, pretending I just need fresh paper. The lines look like prison bars.
Why would the Honmoon listen to you? You barely belong here.
I try freewriting. I try drawing stupid doodles to loosen up. little cartoon demons, a chibi Rumi with a giant sword, Mira with her unimpressed face and sparkles around it. Normally, this works. Normally, somewhere between doodling and rambling, the line I need pops up like a notification.
Today, my hand keeps moving but nothing makes sense. The ink on the paper is just…noise.
Minutes blur. The beat we looped on the speakers keeps cycling, over and over and over, like it's mocking me. Like even the track is ready and I'm the one dragging behind.
"Maybe we should change the concept," I mumble at some point, flipping yet another useless page. "Make it, I don't know, entirely instrumental. Very edgy. No lyrics. Super artistic."
"Nice try," Rumi says gently. "But no."
Mira squints up at the ceiling. "What if we start from movement and you write to that?" she suggests. "I could sketch a rough choreo, you watch, you feel it, then write to what you see."
The idea is good. Everything they say is good. That's the problem. They're giving me all these bridges and I'm just staring at the edge like an idiot, too scared to take a step.
"Maybe later," I say. "I think I'm close."
Lies, lies, lies.
By the time Rumi calls a break because my hands are shaking too hard to hold the pen steady and the last thing she wants is ink all over my hoodie again, I want to crawl out of my own skin.
"Ten minutes," she says, pushing her chair back. "I'm going to see what Celine wanted before she calls a third time and kidnaps us."
Her phone's been buzzing on and off on the table, Celine's name lighting up the screen, ignored. Guilt pricks, but it's buried under everything else.
Rumi scoops it up and heads for the hallway, already answering. "Yeah, yeah, we're alive, can we talk later, our genius is suffering."
Mira sits up fully, grabs the empty water bottles off the floor, and stands. "I'll refill," she says, eyeing me for a second longer than feels normal. "Don't run away."
"I'm literally sitting," I say. "I'm a tree. Deep roots. Very still."
She doesn't smile, but her mouth softens. "I'll be right back," she says quietly, and leaves.
The door closes behind them with a soft click that sounds a little too loud.
For a moment, the room is just me, the looped beat, and the blinking deadline on Rumi's laptop.
The silence under the music feels like pressure. My chest feels tight, like someone's wrapped it in barbed wire.
I stand up so fast my chair skids back and almost tips. "Bathroom," I mutter, like I'm telling someone, even though no one is there.
I duck into the hallway, past the framed promo photos of other groups and the sad fake plant that has been here longer than we have. The bathroom door sticks a little when I push it open, as always. The fluorescent lights flicker once, twice, then stay on.
I lock myself in the far stall, the one with the least amount of tragic graffiti, and press my forehead to the cool metal divider.
The chill seeps into my skin, grounding and horrifying all at once.
My reflection flashes at me from the metal, distorted, eyes too big, mouth drawn tight.
"What is wrong with you?" I whisper at myself.
The question hangs there in the stale air, heavier than any demon blade.
For a heartbeat, there's nothing.
Then the voice inside my head laughs softly, familiar and cruel, like it's been waiting for me to ask.
Finally, it says, curling around my thoughts like smoke. You're starting to pay attention.
The second weapon failure almost kills me.
We're on a rooftop in Gangnam, neon seas of billboards and traffic and drunk people flowing below us like waves against glass. The air is cold enough to sting, warm enough to smell like cigarette smoke and late-night street food. Three demons crawl out of a rip in reality like wet spiders, leaving streaks of shadow across the air behind them. They scuttle toward the edge of the building, homing in on three girls in short dresses stumbling toward a taxi stand below.
We move on instinct.
Rumi is already sprinting, sword blazing into existence with a rip of Honmoon energy and hellfire. She meets the first demon head-on, sparks flying off the blade as she clashes with serrated claws.
Mira vaults over a ventilation unit, body flipping cleanly before her boots slam into the concrete. Her cleaver glows like a crescent moon as she buries it into the chest of the second demon, dragging it down in a plume of dark smoke.
The third one is mine.
It's tall, taller than any of us, with limbs that bend the wrong way and ribs that rattle like an instrument built to play fear. Its empty sockets lock onto me. It moves faster than something with no muscles should.
I throw my hand out.
"Come on," I hiss. "Knives, let's go."
Nothing happens.
No shimmer, no hum, no familiar crackle.
The air around my fingers is totally, unforgivably empty.
Panic slams into me so hard my knees almost buckle.
I stumble back, fingers clawing uselessly at the nothing. I drag at the Honmoon, trying to rip the summoning into existence, trying to force my magic to listen.
"Come on, come on, don't do this."
The demon lunges.
Teeth open wide. A blur of motion.
"Zo!"
Mira's scream slices the night in half a split second before she does.
She slams into me with the full force of someone who trains by throwing herself at demons daily. Her shoulder crashes into my ribs. Pain arcs through me as we're both knocked out of the demon's path. Claws whistle through the air where my throat was a heartbeat ago.
We hit the roof hard. The shock blasts the air from my lungs. For a moment, the sky and concrete and neon smear together.
Mira is on her feet instantly.
She puts herself between me and the demon like she was carved for it.
Her cleaver sings, actually sings, with Honmoon light as she brings it down in a lethal arc. The blade cuts clean through the demon's neck. Its body disintegrates into a cloud of ash and shadow that the wind immediately claims.
Silence slams down so fast my heartbeat becomes the loudest thing in the world.
Rumi finishes her demon with a furious roar, then whirls around, chest heaving, eyes glowing faintly with demonic fire.
"Zoey!"
I can't move.
I can't breathe.
Because I tried to summon my knives, my knives and they weren't there.
My hands shake uncontrollably. I curl them into fists, but they refuse to obey. The tremor gets worse. My stomach lurches, bile burning at the back of my throat.
Rumi is suddenly kneeling in front of me, hands gripping my shoulders tight enough to ground me or shake me, I'm not sure which. Demon ichor glows faintly along her jawline like war paint.
"What happened?" she demands.
"Nothing," I hear myself say, voice scraping thin. "I just, tripped. Lost my footing."
"Bullshit," Mira snaps.
I look up.
She's a few feet away. Cleaver still in her hand. Knuckles white. Jaw tight. Fury radiating off her in waves but I recognize it. It's not anger at me. It's fear. For me.
A fear she doesn't know how to voice except as rage.
Her eyes drop to my empty hands.
"You didn't summon," she says. Flat. Final.
My throat closes.
"I…" My voice breaks. "It was just a blip. I'm tired. We've been patrolling a lot, the Honmoon's weird, Mercury's in retrograde probably, I don't know."
"Zoey." Rumi's voice drops low. Dangerous. The kind she uses when something is very, very wrong. "You dropped your weapons in the middle of a fight."
"They didn't show up," Mira corrects sharply.
Rumi's grip tightens. "Is this the first time?"
"Yes," I say.
A lie.
Mira's eyes narrow to razor slits.
Her foot taps once against the concrete, her tell when she's holding back something volcanic.
I fold instantly.
"Okay, it's not the first time," I blurt, words tumbling too fast. "But it's been tiny stuff! Just a knife flickering, or taking longer to summon, nothing like…Like this. I didn't want to worry you."
Rumi inhales sharply. "Zo."
"And you didn't tell us?" Mira's voice cracks like ice splitting. "You let us go into fights thinking your weapons were fine?"
Shame floods me so hard my vision blurs.
I stare at a smear of demon ash on the ground.
"I didn't want to be a problem," I whisper. "Rumi already has the demon side stuff. You're carrying choreo and keeping us alive and the Idol Awards are coming and Celine's stressed and the whole world is literally depending on us to not mess up—"
"Zoey." Rumi cups my cheek. "You're not a problem."
The voice in my head laughs.
You are the problem. That's the whole point.
I flinch.
Rumi sees it, of course she does, and her eyes widen.
"What else is going on?" she asks, softer, but with steel under it. "Because this isn't just weapon summoning malfunctions."
My lungs squeeze tight. The rooftop spins.
If I tell them about the voice…
If I tell them about the lyrics dying…
If I tell them how broken I feel…
…it becomes real.
It becomes their burden.
And I don't want to break them.
"I'm just tired," I say again, hating how pathetic it sounds. "The words aren't coming. The knives glitched. It'll pass."
"It almost passed you into a demon's stomach," Mira snaps, too loud, too raw.
Rumi shoots her a warning look but she doesn't disagree.
Mira drags in a breath, shoulders shaking with the effort to keep herself from exploding.
"We're going home," she says. "Now. We're calling Celine. And we're fixing this."
Her eyes lock with mine.
Mira never speaks in paragraphs.
Never uses more words than necessary.
But when she does?
It lands like a vow.
Something in my chest cracks open.
"Okay," I whisper.
The wind picks up, scattering the last demon ash off the rooftop. The city below is loud again, car horns, laughter, music floating from the clubs. Life goes on obliviously. The Honmoon hums faintly in the distance, strained and uneven.
And in that moment, one truth settles in my bones:
If I don't fix whatever's happening to me…
…I'm going to break everything.
Our penthouse is twenty floors up, all glass and steel and too-white walls. Seoul sprawls out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows in a glittering expanse, headlights crawling, billboards screaming ads for products we pretend to like. The Han River cuts through the dark like a silver scar.
There's a dent in the coffee table from where Mira dropped a dumbbell once. A permanent stain on the couch from the time I exploded a bubble tea straw. Takeout menus shoved between art books. Rumi's hoodie collection draped over every chair. It's home.
Tonight, it feels like a stage I'm about to bomb on.
Rumi paces by the window, phone pressed to her ear. Her reflection in the glass looks like another girl entirely, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, eyes sharp, wearing one of my oversized band tees that says "Hella Loud" across the front. The Honmoon thrums faintly around her like a halo only I can see, flickering when her voice rises.
"Yeah," she says into the phone. "She couldn't summon at all. No, not just a delay. Nothing. And it's not just that. Her writing's blocked too."
My stomach twists.
Mira leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching me like she's guarding a bomb she intends to throw herself on if it explodes. Her cleaver is gone, but the stance is the same, shoulders set, spine straight, gaze razor-focused.
I sit on the couch, hands twisted together in my lap. The city lights reflect on the glass coffee table, making my fingers look like multiple layers of me all overlapping.
Too many.
Never enough.
"Celine's on her way," Rumi says a minute later, hanging up. "She said don't touch anything and to keep you here."
"She's not going to dissect me, right?" I ask weakly. "Or worse, make me do meditative breathing exercises."
Mira rolls her eyes. "You like the breathing exercises."
"I like not dying," I correct. "The breathing is just how we get there."
Rumi comes over and crouches in front of me, hands braced on my knees. Her eyes search my face. God, she's too earnest. It hurts. She always looks at me like I'm something she can fix if she just focuses hard enough.
"I need you to be honest with us," she says. "All of it."
I swallow.
The voice in my head purrs.
Tell them. Watch their faces.
"My lyrics are gone," I blurt.
Both of them flinch.
"Gone?" Mira repeats. "What do you mean, gone?"
"I mean…" I gesture helplessly. "I sit down and try to write and it feels like… like there's this wall. And every time I try to climb it, something yanks me back down. Or tells me I shouldn't even be trying. My brain's just static. And this started before the knives."
"How long before?" Rumi says.
"A couple of weeks?" I wince. "Maybe three. Time is fake."
"And you didn't say anything," Mira says flatly.
"I thought it was writer's block!" I say. "People get that. It's normal. I didn't think it was demon-adjacent. And it's my job to handle my own brain garbage."
Rumi's expression crumples. "Zoey."
"No, she's right," Mira says, surprising me. "It is your job to handle your own brain. But when your brain starts messing with our ability to keep each other alive, that's our job too."
Her voice is sharper than usual. Underneath it, though, there's a tremor.
She's scared.
Of losing me.
The thought hits so hard my breath skips.
Rumi squeezes my knees. "We're not mad you're struggling," she says. "We're mad you thought you had to do it alone."
The voice sneers.
Because that's how it works. You only matter when you're not a burden.
I press my nails into my palms until it hurts.
"Why now?" Mira asks suddenly. "The Honmoon just upgraded. We won the last battle. We've been training. Why would your power—" She cuts herself off, jaw working.
"Is this about Rumi being part demon?" she continues, "Because if this is some kind of side effect, we should have…"
"It's not that," Rumi says quickly. "Celine would've warned us."
"Then what?" I demand. "Because I'm really not in the mood for 'mysterious cosmic reasons' right now. I like my explanations with bullet points."
Mira sighs, rubbing a hand over her face. "We knew there would be recoil," she says. "The Honmoon is drawing more power than before. We're connected more tightly. Sometimes we don't get to choose how that shows up."
"That's not an explanation," I say. "That's a horoscope."
Rumi almost smiles. Almost. "Celine will help," she says. "She always does."
Unless the problem is me.
I don't say that part out loud.
The three of us sit in a tense triangle of silence. The city hums beneath us. The Honmoon pulses faintly against my ribcage like it's listening too closely.
Then the elevator dings.
Mira straightens instantly. Rumi's hand tightens on my knee.
The air shifts.
And suddenly I wish the demon on the rooftop had finished the job.
Celine arrives twenty minutes later, smelling like incense and rain and something older than both. She sweeps into our living room like she owns the place, or like she's here to repossess it. Her black trench coat flares behind her, the fabric so sleek and heavy it probably costs more than our rent and our utilities combined. Her dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail so tight it could probably slice a demon in half on its own.
Her eyes flick over the three of us the way scanners sweep airport luggage, fast, thorough, deeply judgmental.
"I don't usually do emergency home visits," she says, shrugging off her coat with military precision. "But someone", she pins Rumi with a pointed look, "made it sound like the world was ending."
Rumi folds her arms across her chest, completely unbothered. "If anything happens to Zoey, I end the world myself," she says. "So."
Celine's mouth twitches. Not a smile, but close. "Fair enough."
My heart does a weird, traitorous flip. Rumi says dramatic protective things all the time, she's Rumi but tonight it hits differently. Heavier. Denser. Like a promise she made in her bones, not her mouth.
Celine claps her hands once, sharp as a gunshot. "Sit."
She points at the rug in front of the coffee table like I'm a first-year trainee being scolded for missing a vocal warm-up.
I lower myself onto the rug. The fabric scratches against my palms. The city sprawls behind her in glittering ribbons of headlights and neon, turning her silhouette into something out of a high-budget MV, mysterious mentor with a warning the main character isn't ready to hear.
Mira is behind me, leaning against the back of the couch. Her presence presses between my shoulder blades, solid and immovable, like she's bracing me from behind without touching me.
Rumi settles to my left, close enough that her knee brushes my shoulder. Her warmth seeps into my skin and makes my stomach twist.
"Explain," Celine orders.
So, I do.
Weapons glitching. Lyrics dying. The voice.
I keep my gaze glued to my hands the whole time, twisting a loose thread on my sweatpants until it spirals apart. Anything is better than looking at their faces.
When I get to the part about the voice, you're too much, you're not enough, Rumi's hand clenches into a fist so hard her knuckles crack. Mira's breath catches with a sound she tries to muffle.
Celine's face doesn't change, but the energy does. She sharpens, all edges and appraisal.
"Since when," she says, "have you been hearing that voice?"
I think back. Try to trace the static.
"Maybe…a month?" I say. "It was really quiet at first, like the hum of a fridge. I didn't realize it wasn't me until it started interrupting my lines."
"And what does it sound like?" she presses. "Male? Female? Familiar?"
"I don't know." My voice cracks. "It's like someone blended a demon hiss and my inner critic and a disappointed teacher and made a 'you suck' smoothie."
"Gross," Rumi mutters.
"Right?" I whisper.
Celine steps closer. "Close your eyes."
I do.
"Breathe," she says. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Find your center. Find the Honmoon."
I inhale. Her incense curls into my lungs, spicy and sharp, grounding and unsettling all at once.
I exhale. My shoulders drop half an inch.
Then I reach.
And the Honmoon is there but muted. Filtered. Like someone threw a dirty sheet over it. The bond between me, Rumi, and Mira usually feels like a glowing, humming rope braided between our ribs. Tonight it feels frayed. Tight. Something oily creeps along it like mold in a humid bathroom.
"Follow the bond," Celine murmurs. "See what's wrapped around your part."
I trace it inward.
My light sparks up first, electric blue with threads of gold. It pulses like a heartbeat. Like me.
But then, chains.
Black, oily chains coiled around my light like they were always there, like they grew out of me. Each link shimmers with poisonous words etched into the surface.
Too much.
Too loud.
Too emotional.
Too messy.
Not enough.
Not strong enough.
Not worth keeping.
Each one cracks against me like a slap.
My breath hitches. My chest tightens.
"What do you see?" Celine's voice is calm.
"Chains," I whisper. "They're wrapped around my Honmoon. With…words. All the worst ones."
"Did you put them there?"
I hesitate, shame crawling up my throat.
"I…I don't know."
But I do. They feel like every ugly thought I've swallowed and never spat out. Every time I tried not to take up space. Every time someone said something cruel online and I believed it in the dark.
"Something is putting a blocker on everything," Celine says. "Something already inside you that the demons are exploiting."
She kneels in front of me. Her presence feels too close and not close enough.
"You're saying this is my fault," I choke.
Rumi makes a furious, wounded sound. "She did not say that."
"It's not about fault," Celine says sharply. "It's about responsibility."
That word hits like a punch to my sternum.
Responsibility
To not mess up.
To not drag them down.
To fix myself silently.
To not be the weak link.
"You allowed these beliefs to take root," Celine continues. "Allowed them to wrap around your power. That is your work to undo. Demons grow where you leave your darkness unattended."
I barely hear her nuance. All I hear is.
If you don't fix yourself, you'll hurt them.
Rumi explodes.
"Hey," she snaps. "Dial it back. She almost died tonight and your first instinct is to guilt-trip her?"
Celine's eyes flash. "I'm telling her the truth."
"There's a difference between truth and stabbing someone with it," Rumi growls. "She already thinks she's a burden. You talk like that and her brain will eat itself alive to protect us."
Mira's voice slices in, quiet but lethal. "If Honmoon is intention, then what do you think happens if you speak like she intentionally did this to us?"
Celine exhales, annoyed and maybe a little chastened. "You asked for my assessment. Some things I cannot do for her."
"Then say that," Rumi spits. "Don't imply she's sabotaging us on purpose."
The silence crackles like ice.
Inside me, the chains pulse harder, feeding on every word.
The voice in my head claps slowly.
See? Even now…you're the problem.
I want to fold in on myself.
Celine touches my forehead, unexpectedly gentle.
"Zoey," she says softly. "Look at me."
I force my eyes open. Her gaze is steady, almost…worried.
"This is not weakness," she says. "This is power turned inward. The Demon King is weaponizing your fear. If he can choke your magic through your beliefs, he will."
It makes sense. It just doesn't matter. My shame is already drowning out reason.
"You must get control of these chains," she says. "We will guide you. But only you can unlock them."
There it is again.
Fix yourself.
Stop being a problem.
Try harder.
Be better.
Don't screw up.
Rumi starts to argue, but her voice fades. My ears are full of static.
"Okay," I whisper.
Mira moves around the table, kneeling beside me. Her hand brushes my arm, soft, hesitant, as if she's afraid I'll flinch.
"Zoey…"
"I'm sorry," I blurt.
All three of them go still.
"You have nothing to apologize for," Rumi says instantly.
"I do." My voice trembles. "I should've told you earlier. I should've handled it before it got this bad. If I can't fix it, you should, maybe bench me. From patrols. And the song. And the Awards."
"No," Mira says.
Thunder in one syllable.
I look at her. Her jaw is steel. Her eyes are darker than I've ever seen them, fear and anger and something else I can't name.
"You don't get to write yourself out," she says. "You don't get to decide you're a lost cause before we've even begun fighting for you."
"Mira," Celine warns gently. "She's in shock."
"I'm not pushing," Mira snaps. "I'm refusing to let her disappear under the guise of protecting us."
Her words punch the air out of my lungs.
I can't sit here anymore. If I stay, I'll shatter.
"I need…" My chest constricts. "I need a minute."
I get up so fast the room tilts sideways. I stumble toward my bedroom, vision narrowing like a collapsing tunnel.
"Zoey," Rumi calls after me, voice tight.
I don't answer.
I close my door behind me and finally let myself break.
I shut the door, walk across the room, lean on the wall, and slide down until I'm sitting on the floor. My knees pull up to my chest as if they're trying to protect something that's already in pieces.
The tears hit before I can stop them.
They come hot and fast, choking and messy, snot and hiccups and shaking shoulders I can't hold still. I press my fists to my mouth to muffle the sounds because the last thing I want is for them to hear me breaking apart.
I'm the loud one. The bright one.
The one who jokes through fear and spins ugly feelings into beautiful lines and holds the others when their own demons get too loud.
I don't know how to be the broken one.
"That's because you were never meant to stay," the voice whispers. "You were a placeholder. A convenient lyricist. A loud American novelty. They have each other. They have demon blood and perfect choreo and leader instincts. What do you have?"
I curl into myself.
Nothing, I think miserably.
I have nothing.
After that, I don't hear the penthouse at all. Not the distant murmur of Rumi's pacing, not Celine's low voice, not Mira's sharp inhale when she gets frustrated. Everything is drowned out by the voice, by memories it drags out like rusty knives, teachers sighing when I talked too much, my father wishing I'd choose something practical, anonymous comments under our debut stage saying I was too Western, too loud, too much.
Every one of those memories shapes itself into a chain link around my chest.
My breathing turns shallow. I squeeze my eyes shut and start counting in my head.
One.
Two.
Three.
A soft knock.
"Zo?" Mira's voice, soft in a way she rarely lets the world hear. "Can I come in?"
I scrub my face with the sleeves of my hoodie, trying to erase the evidence. My throat hurts. My eyes sting. I sound like a clogged sink when I speak.
"Door's not locked."
The handle turns.
Mira slips inside and closes the door gently behind her, like she doesn't want to scare me back into myself. She's changed, sweatpants, black tank top, hair in a messy bun perched high on her head. Without makeup, without stage lights, she looks younger. Softer.
Dangerously pretty.
"What do you want?" I croak, aiming for sarcasm and landing somewhere around exhausted child.
"To sit with you," she says simply.
She crosses the room and lowers herself onto the floor in front of me, mirroring my posture so our knees almost touch. She doesn't reach for me. She just…exists there. Steady and certain and present in a way that feels like an anchor.
"You don't have to," I mutter.
"I know," she says. "I want to."
Something in my chest twists so sharply I almost gasp.
Silence settles between us, not comfortable, not uncomfortable. Just there. The silence between beats that makes a song whole.
"I'm sorry," I say eventually, voice low and torn.
"If you apologize one more time," she says calmly, "I'm throwing you off the balcony and trusting the Honmoon to catch you."
A wet, stupid laugh breaks out of me. "Rude."
"Effective," she corrects.
I swipe at my face again. "I screwed up."
"You're struggling," she says. "Not the same thing."
"Struggling almost got me eaten."
"Being targeted almost got you eaten," she says firmly. "There's a difference."
"You heard Celine," I snap, anger flaring because feeling angry is easier than feeling shattered. "I allowed this. My fear did this. My crappy self-esteem did this. My brain is apparently moldy and a great demon Airbnb. Amazing."
Mira's expression barely changes, but something in her gaze does.
She shifts slightly. "Do you remember the first time you met Rumi?"
I blink. "You're changing the subject."
"No," she says. "I'm not."
I sniff. "Yeah. She looked like she was about to puke from nerves. I called her eyeliner party wings. She laughed so hard she ruined them."
"You sat with her in the stairwell for three hours," Mira says. "You convinced her she didn't have to be perfect to belong here."
"Okay, well," I mutter, "I'm better at giving advice than taking it."
"What about me?" she asks.
I huff. "You mean when I barged into the practice room mid-spin-kick and you almost sliced my head off?"
"Mhm," she says, mouth twitching. "And then you said, 'If you're going to kill me, at least do it on beat.'"
"In my defense," I say, sniffling, "it was a very on-beat kick."
"You made me laugh," she murmurs. "I hadn't laughed in weeks."
My breath stutters.
"My point," Mira says, leaning in slightly, "is that you've always given other people permission to be imperfect. To be messy. To still belong. But you think you're exempt."
Her eyes lock onto mine.
"Why does everyone else get to be human, but you have to be a flawless magic robot?"
The question knocks the breath from my lungs.
"Because if I'm not," I whisper, the truth ripping out of me like a wound reopening, "you'll realize I'm not worth keeping."
The silence that follows is not empty.
It's sharp.
It's full.
Mira doesn't look shocked.
She looks heartbreakingly sad.
"I see," she says softly.
I want to swallow the words, rewind time, claw them back before they can sit between us. Instead, Mira reaches forward and gently pries my fists open, unhooking my fingers from the fabric of my hoodie.
Her hands are warm and scarred and unbelievably steady.
"Zoey," she murmurs. "Look at me."
I do.
Her eyes are dark and reflecting the city lights slipping in through the curtains. There's no judgment there. No irritation. Just fierce, aching tenderness and something deeper that I don't want to name because naming it might make it real.
"You're not here because you're useful," she says. "You're here because you're you."
"That's what people say before they hand you a participation trophy," I mutter weakly.
She squeezes my hands.
"You think I let anyone into my life?" she asks. "Into my home? Into my…"
She cuts herself off so sharply the silence rings.
My heart stumbles.
Into my heart, I think.
She exhales slowly. "You think Rumi would go to war with Celine for anyone? You think she would throw herself in front of a demon for anyone?"
"Yes," I say automatically. "Because you're both good people."
"No," she says. "Because you're our person."
Her thumbs stroke the back of my hands.
"The Demon King doesn't have to lie to you," she says quietly. "He just has to take the worst things you already believe and turn the volume up."
She leans closer, forehead almost touching mine.
"So let me be louder."
I choke on a breath.
"Mira…"
She releases one of my hands and places her palm on my chest, right over the Honmoon mark. Heat curls outward from her touch, sinking into my ribs, my lungs, my spine.
"Your fear isn't the enemy," she murmurs. "It kept you alive when people tried to shame you into silence. It helped you survive what they didn't understand. But you're not alone anymore. Your fear just hasn't realized the world changed."
Her words feel like fingertips pressing gently on a bruise, painful, but relieving.
"Celine's right that only you can unlock those chains," Mira says. "But she's wrong if she thinks that means you have to stand there alone."
The Honmoon under her hand pulses, waking like a creature stirring from sleep.
"Let me in," she whispers. "Let me see what you see."
My heart kicks against my ribs.
"Is that…safe?" I ask, voice barely there.
"For you?" She gives a tiny, earnest nod. "With me? Always."
I exhale shakily and close my eyes, focusing on her warmth, her grounding touch, the way the Honmoon is already responding to her like it's been waiting.
"Okay," I whisper.
And the Honmoon answers like a door unlocking.
Our bond flares to life, three cords of light braided together. I feel Rumi's sleepy, restless energy in the next room, still buzzing with worry, twitching like she's pacing even when she's lying down. I feel Mira right here, golden and sharp and steady, like a blade fresh from the forge.
Mira's presence nudges gently at the edges of my inner space.
I take a breath and let her in.
It's like opening a door I didn't know I'd been bracing my shoulder against. There's a soft click in my chest, and then, suddenly she's there, in the place where my soul lives.
We stand side by side in front of the chained-up core of my power. The inner space looks a little like our practice room and a little like nothing I've ever seen, dark all around except for the light pouring off my Honmoon, reflections catching on invisible surfaces. It smells like sweat and incense and rain on hot pavement. My heartbeats echo in the distance like kick drums.
Mira looks different here.
Brighter.
Her edges glow, outlined in gold, and her hair lifts slightly in energy that isn't quite wind. The usual controlled set of her shoulders is still there but softened by something fierce and radiant. She's wearing training clothes, but they ripple like they're made of light, not fabric.
She lets out a low, furious breath when she sees the chains.
"They're everywhere," she murmurs, voice reverberating in the space like it's both sound and vibration.
"Yeah," I say, my voice coming out small and tinny in comparison. It bounces around us, then crawls back to me, embarrassed.
She steps closer to my core, the ball of electric blue and gold light at the center of all this and reaches out, cautious but unafraid, to brush one of the links with her fingers.
It hisses at her touch, black smoke curling up like burning plastic.
The words etched on it flare hot white.
Too emotional.
Her jaw tightens.
"Who told you this?" she asks.
I huff out a shaky breath. "Take your pick," I say. "Teachers who said I was distracting the class. Trainers who told me to 'tone it down' if I didn't want to get cut. Comment sections calling me cringe. Myself, on loop. Everyone. You've seen the way people talk about me. I'm the dramatic one. The loud one. The American one."
Her head snaps toward me. "You forgot one," she says.
"What?"
"The beloved one," she counters immediately. "The one who makes people feel brave. The one who walks onstage and makes the whole room brighter without trying."
Her words sink into the air and glow faintly, like they have weight here.
She turns back to the chains, eyes scanning them slowly, methodically, the way she looks at choreography before destroying it.
"Too loud," she reads off another link, fingers ghosting over the engraved letters. "Too messy. Too much. Not enough. Not strong enough." Her voice hardens with each phrase. By the time she reaches the last one, it's basically a growl. "We're burning these."
"I don't think it's that easy," I say. My stomach twists. "If it were, I would've just…set them on fire years ago, you know?"
"Good thing you're not doing it alone, then," she says.
She steps back until she's right beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. Her presence hums against mine, warm and grounding, like leaning against a space heater that also loves you.
"Put your hand on your core," she instructs quietly.
I swallow and obey, pressing my palm against the pulsing blue-gold heart of my power. It's hot, but not in a painful way, more like pressing my hand to my own heartbeat.
"Now," she says, "I want you to think of one time, just one, where being 'too much' saved someone."
I almost say, it never has, but the bond between us tightens in warning, like it knows that's a lie.
Images flicker, then sharpen.
My stupid jokes in the van after our first demon fight, cutting through Rumi's shell-shocked silence until she snorted soda out her nose and then started laughing so hard she had to clutch my arm.
Me climbing on top of a table in the trainee dorm and starting a singalong the night everyone was too depressed after evaluations. The way the room slowly shifted from gray to buzzing, voices overlapping, tears turning to laughter.
Me grabbing the mic at a fan meet when the sound system glitched and filling the dead air with chaotic Q , calling out fans' outfits and signs, making three girls cry and tell us we made them feel less alone.
"Good," Mira says softly, feeling the shift even without looking at me. "Hold that."
The chain labeled too much smokes, the metal bubbling like something is boiling under its surface.
"Now," she says, "one time being 'too loud' got someone to listen who wouldn't have otherwise."
I think of screaming at a producer who wanted to auto-tune Rumi's voice into something unrecognizable and almost saccharine. I remember shaking, voice cracking, but not backing down until he actually listened.
Arguing with Celine to let Mira perform an original choreo piece even when it deviated from the safe, marketable plan. Saying, if you don't let her do this, you're wasting the best thing we have.
Calling my mom in tears and telling her I wasn't coming home. That I had to try, really try, to make this work, even if it broke my heart, because the alternative was suffocating.
The chain labeled 'too loud' cracks down the middle with a ringing ping that vibrates through my bones.
A sliver of blue light bursts out, bright as a stage spotlight.
I suck in a breath.
"See?" Mira murmurs. "These chains are made of half-truths. They only stay if you agree with them."
Tears burn behind my eyes again. "It's not that simple," I say, voice wobbling.
"No," she agrees. "It's not. But it's a start."
She covers my hand on my core with her own. Her palm is warm and sure. Honmoon energy surges between us, gold and blue twining together like two threads being woven tighter.
"Say it," she whispers. "Out loud. Here."
"Say what?" I ask, even though I already know.
"That you deserve to be here."
The words stick in my throat like dry bread. My chest constricts.
"I can't," I croak. "It feels…wrong. Like I'll choke on it."
"Yes, you can," she says, voice steady. "And if you can't believe it for you yet, believe it for me." Her thumb strokes the back of my hand. "I need you here. I don't say that lightly."
Something in me stutters.
I open my eyes in the physical world for a second.
I'm still sitting on the floor of my bedroom. Mira's real hand is still on my chest, over my Honmoon mark. Her face is inches from mine, eyes locked on me, dark and intent and a little wet around the edges. Our knees are touching. We're breathing in sync without trying.
I could count every eyelash from this distance.
I close my eyes again before I do something dumb like memorize her mouth.
"I…" My voice wavers in both worlds. "I deserve to be here."
The chains rattle, a low clanging like distant thunder.
"Again," Mira says, a little more force behind it.
"I deserve to be here." It comes out stronger this time. Angrier. Aimed at every teacher, investor, faceless commenter, and ghost in my own head.
The link labeled Not worth keeping shatters.
It doesn't just crack, it explodes, sending shards of black metal flying outward, dissolving into dust before they can hit anything. Light floods out from beneath it, washing over us in a rush of heat.
Warmth spreads through my chest, my lungs, down my arms and legs, into my fingertips and toes. The icy grip on my thoughts loosens, just a little at first, then more and more, like someone is peeling frozen fingers off my throat.
The voice in my head hisses, retreating like smoke pulled out through an open window.
"No demon gets to decide your worth," Mira says fiercely, her voice echoing in the inner space and in my real ears at the same time. "No stranger on the internet. No old teacher. Not even Celine. And definitely not your scared past self."
She steps forward, raising her free hand.
Honmoon fire ignites in her palm, a golden blaze that doesn't burn, just radiates this deep, cleansing heat. It smells like cedar and sunlight and the air backstage right before a show.
"You trust me?" she asks, glancing at me.
"Yes," I say, without hesitation. It shocks me how easy that is, when everything else feels hard.
She presses the golden fire to the nearest cluster of chains.
They sizzle, shriek, and start to melt.
The words on them, too messy, too emotional, too much, blur, then drip away like ink in water, running down the black metal and evaporating before they can stain anything else.
The core of my power pulses brighter, seizing the openings, pushing light into the gaps where darkness had settled.
The sensation in my physical body is overwhelming. My heart races. My lungs fill deeper than they have in weeks, like I'd been breathing through a straw and suddenly remembered oxygen exists. Tears spill down my cheeks, but they're not the twisting, choking ones from earlier, they're hot, releasing tears, like my body is throwing up toxins it's been hoarding.
The voice in my head tries one last time, desperate.
They'll leave. You know they will. You're setting yourself up to be abandoned again. You're too much, and when the high wears off, they'll—
"No," I say out loud.
Both in here and out there.
The last chain around my core splits right down the middle with a blinding flare.
Light explodes outward.
The Honmoon roars to life, flooding through me like a tidal wave breaking every dam it finds. The bond between the three of us flares white-blue-gold so bright it hurts to look at. I hear Rumi gasp in the next room, feel her aura jolt and flare as the connection surges, her worry spiking and then smoothing as the wave passes through her too.
Mira holds steady against the blast, eyes squeezed shut now, teeth gritted. Her hand on my chest anchors me like a hand on a kite string in a storm.
For a second, I swear I see more than just us.
The Demon King's shadow, oily and tall, recoiling from the sudden blaze like I just swung a spotlight in his face. The lingering mold on the edges of my power curling up and crisping away.
When the light finally settles, the chains are gone.
Not broken, not dangling, gone. Just faint scorch marks where they used to be, like someone took off a barbed-wire crown and left only the imprint.
My power hums under my skin, cleaner and clearer than I can ever remember. It's still me, still chaotic and sparking and a little too bright but it's not strangled anymore. There are scars where the chains dug in, sure, pale grooves etched into the surface of my core.
But scars are just proof that you healed.
In the real world, I suck in a huge breath and sag forward. Mira catches me instantly, arms coming around my shoulders, pulling me into her. My forehead ends up tucked under her chin, our Honmoon marks pressed together between us, both of them buzzing like we swallowed a star.
Her heart is pounding almost as hard as mine.
"You did it," she whispers into my hair, voice shaking with relief. "Zoey, you did it."
I cling to her, fingers fisting in the fabric of her tank top, and for the first time in weeks, the space inside my head is quiet.
Not empty.
Just…quiet enough that I can hear something new.
My own voice, underneath everything, whispering.
I deserve to be here.
I sag forward, panting.
My whole body feels like it's been turned inside out and run through a washing machine made of light. Every muscle shakes. My heart is still racing like it hasn't gotten the memo that we're not currently dying.
"Zoey?" Mira says softly.
Her voice curls around my name like a hand on the small of my back.
I open my eyes.
We're back in my room. My ceiling. My fairy lights. My stupid poster of that one American band I won't admit I still stanned in middle school. The air smells like incense from the living room and whatever citrus shampoo Mira uses that always lingers on her skin.
Her hand is still on my chest, warm and steady over my Honmoon mark. My own hands are wrapped around her wrist like I thought I was going to fall out of my own body if I let go. Our faces are close enough that I can feel her breath fan across my lips, quick and uneven.
"Hey," she murmurs. "You with me?"
Her eyes are wide and dark, searching my face like she's looking for cracks.
I nod shakily. "I think so."
My voice comes out raw, like I've been screaming at a concert for hours. My throat aches. My ribs feel bruised from the inside out. But under all of that, my power hums…clear. Not perfect, not neat, but mine.
"Good." Relief washes across her face so raw it makes my chest ache. Her shoulders drop, I hadn't even noticed how tense she was until that tension leaks out of her all at once.
"I heard it," I whisper, because the words are hot and heavy in my chest and I need them out. "The Demon King. In the chains. Laughing. He's the one who pushed them tighter. But they were mine first."
Saying it out loud feels like admitting I left the door unlocked for a monster and then acted surprised when it walked in.
"We'll deal with him," she says immediately. No hesitation. No "are you sure?" "Together. Now that he can't yank your strings so easily, he's lost his favorite toy."
I flinch at the word.
"I was a toy," I say, tasting bile and shame.
Her gaze sharpens. "No," she says, firm. "You were a weapon he was trying to turn inward. But we flipped it back."
I let out a shaky, disbelieving exhale. "Mira?"
"Yeah?"
"You came in," I say, voice thin. "Into my core. That's… That's kind of intimate, you know."
Understatement of the century. I just let her walk through my soul like it was a practice room.
Color rises in her cheeks, blooming across her cheekbones. "It is," she admits quietly.
Her hand on my chest hasn't moved.
Neither have I.
The air between us shifts, thickens. The world narrows down to the span of space between our mouths, the press of her palm over my heart, the buzz of the Honmoon weaving lazy, content circles under my skin.
For a long moment, we just breathe together, the Honmoon humming softly in the background, our bond warm and close. The usual noise of the city outside, horns, sirens, distant bass from some club, fades to a muffled backdrop.
"I meant what I said," she murmurs. "About needing you here."
Her eyes flick up to mine as she says it, like she's bracing for me to argue.
"I know," I say.
And I do. I heard it in her voice when she yanked me out of the way of that demon. I felt it in the way she stepped into my inner space like she was ready to fight my monsters with her bare hands.
"Do you believe me?" she asks.
The question hangs there, fragile and heavy at the same time.
I search her face.
Mira doesn't do empty words. She doesn't do casual confessions. She's always been the one who carries us in the quiet ways, fixing our form in rehearsal, pushing water bottles into our hands, memorizing everyone's tells and never mentioning that she did. She has carried us on her back in a hundred tiny moments that no one claps for.
Tonight, she let me see her scared. Furious. Tender. She walked through my chains and burned them for me when my own hands were shaking too hard.
"I'm starting to," I say honestly.
Her shoulders sag a little, like she's been holding up a weight no one else could see and finally set it down. A tiny breath whooshes out of her.
"Good," she says, and the word is so soft it barely reaches my ears.
We lapse into silence again, but it feels different now. Less like an empty hallway, more like the held breath right before a chorus drops. The kind of silence that's full of possibilities, not absence.
I stare at the hollow of her throat, the way her pulse beats there. My thoughts start spilling before I can put them back in their boxes.
"I don't want to just be your responsibility," I blurt.
She blinks, like I just splashed cold water in her face. "You're not."
"I know," I rush to say, tripping over my own words. "I know. It's just. Sometimes it feels like I'm the chaos you have to manage. The loud one you have to rein in. The fragile human between the part-demon and the terrifyingly talented dance machine."
Her lips twitch despite herself. "Terrifyingly talented?"
"Objectively," I say, dead serious. "But you know what I mean."
She studies me for a long time, that slow, measured Mira way that makes me feel like she's peeling back layers no one else even notices exist.
"You're not my responsibility," she says finally. "You're my choice."
My heartbeat stutters so hard it hurts.
"What does that mean?" I whisper, because I need her to spell it out. The chains might be gone, but the old lies still hover at the edges, waiting.
"It means," she says slowly, like she's picking each word up and weighing it before she lets it fall, "that every day, I choose you. To stand beside. To fight with. To protect. To listen to. To be annoyed by, occasionally. To be comforted by, often." Her gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes. "To be close to."
The room tilts.
My whole body feels like it's made of vibrating strings. Honmoon light buzzes under my skin, catching those words and sending them echoing through my chest.
"Mira," I say, and her name comes out like a prayer and a swear and a song all at once.
She swallows. I can see her throat move.
"I've been trying not to feel this," she admits in a rush, words tumbling out like they've been stuck behind her teeth for months. "Because we have so much else to deal with. Because Rumi needs us. Because the world keeps ending. But tonight, watching you almost fall off that rooftop, seeing you curled up on the floor of your room thinking you're a burden, " Her voice cracks. "I realized something."
"What?" I breathe.
"That I'm already in it," she says. "All the way. Whether I admit it or not."
My heart feels too big for my ribs. Too much for my chest, not enough room for it and all the old fears at the same time.
"You don't have to…" I start automatically, knee-jerk deflection ready to go.
"I'm not saying this to pressure you," she cuts in quickly. "You just fought a demon in your head. You don't need me dumping feelings on you."
"Too late," I say, a shaky laugh escaping, half-hysterical, half-relieved. "Feelings dumped. It's very messy. Ten out of ten."
She huffs, a tiny smile breaking through the nerves. "You're impossible."
"And you're…" I gesture helplessly at all of her. "You."
Her smile fades into something softer. Something naked and vulnerable that I don't think I've ever seen this clearly.
"You don't have to say anything," she says. "Just, I needed you to know. That when I'm fighting for you, it's not because you're the weak link. It's because you're…" She searches for the word like it's stuck somewhere between her ribs. "You're my everything."
Something in my chest shatters and rearranges itself, like glass turning into stained glass, same pieces, new pattern.
I realize, with sudden, painful clarity, that my feelings for Mira stopped being "crush" level a long time ago. This is past butterflies. Past "oh no she's hot." This is bone-deep. Honmoon-deep.
She's my anchor. My mirror. My sharp-edged, soft-hearted choreographer who notices when I'm off beat even when I'm laughing the loudest. The one whose praise makes my whole week and whose silence can make me spiral because I care that much.
"Mira," I say again, and this time my voice steadies. "Look at me."
She does. She always does, when it matters.
"I'm in it too," I say.
Her breath stutters. "Zoey…"
"I have been," I add. "For a while. I just thought I was the only one. Or that I was making it up. Or that I'd ruin everything if I said it."
Her eyes shine, the emotion there so intense it makes my own eyes burn. "You won't," she says.
"How do you know?" I ask, because doubting myself is a reflex my body hasn't unlearned yet.
"Because you just ripped demon chains off your own heart with me," she says. "If we can do that, we can handle a relationship."
The word hangs between us like a neon sign.
Relationship.
My pulse skitters, tripping over itself.
"Is that what this is?" I ask, just to make sure I'm not hallucinating from magical exhaustion.
"It could be," she says. "If you want it."
I laugh softly, incredulous and a little watery. "Mira," I say. "I've wanted it since you almost kicked my head off my shoulders and then handed me a towel like it was nothing."
Color floods her cheeks, all the way to the tips of her ears. "That long?"
"Longer," I admit. "I was just really committed to the bit where I pretend I'm fine and flirt with everyone as a defense mechanism."
"You do flirt with everyone," she says dryly.
"Yeah, but I only write songs about you," I blurt.
Her eyes go wide.
"Wait," she says. "Which songs?"
"Not telling," I say automatically, panic and giddiness tangling. "That's for future you to suffer over."
She laughs, a real laugh, full and bright and completely unguarded. It sends a thrill through me that has nothing to do with the Honmoon and everything to do with the girl in front of me.
The Honmoon hums approvingly, like it's been quietly shipping us from day one.
My body moves before my brain catches up.
One moment I'm sitting there, hands still wrapped around her wrist. The next, I'm leaning in, closing the distance between us, drawn by some combination of gravity and magic and every unsaid thing between us.
"Mira," I murmur, my forehead almost bumping hers. "Can I…?"
Her answer is a whisper against my lips, her breath warm.
"Yes."
Our first kiss is soft and electric.
Her mouth is warm, hesitant for half a heartbeat before she leans into it, meeting me halfway. Her free hand slides up to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair with a surety that makes my toes curl. I tilt my head instinctively, pressing closer, savoring the feel of her, the taste of her, tea and mint and sweat and something that's just…Mira.
The Honmoon flares between us like someone hit a spotlight. Energy rushes from my chest to hers and back again, a loop of blue and gold that makes my skin tingle and my nerves sing. Our bond thrums with a new note, a new thread weaving in, something tender and sharp and sweet that slots into place like it's always been there, just waiting to be named.
My fingers curl into the fabric of her tank top, bunching the material, pulling her closer like I'm afraid she'll vanish if I don't anchor her to me physically. She shifts, knees bumping mine, until we're pressed together, chest to chest, heart to heart.
For once, the voice in my head is quiet.
All I hear is her soft exhale, the tiny hitch in her breath when I deepen the kiss, the faint wet sound of our lips parting and meeting again. All I feel is her hand in my hair, the press of her palm at my nape, the solid warmth of her body against mine.
Time blurs. Could be seconds. Could be years lived in the space between heartbeats.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing harder. Our foreheads rest together, noses brushing, lips tingling.
"Wow," I whisper.
"Yeah," she says, voice a little dazed, a little wrecked in a way that makes something smug and gooey swirl in my stomach.
We sit there, foreheads touching, for a few long, steady heartbeats. The Honmoon hums low and pleased, like it's purring.
Then Mira pulls back just enough to actually see my face. Her thumb brushes absently across my cheekbone, catching a tear track I didn't realize was still there.
"We should probably…talk about what this means," she says.
"We will," I promise. "After we deal with the Demon King. After we show Celine I'm not a walking liability. After we submit a song that will make everyone at the Idol Awards ugly-cry."
"Ambitious," she says, a ghost of a smirk tugging at her mouth.
"Have you met me?" I reply.
Her smirk softens into something fond. "Yes," she says. "I have."
She squeezes my hand again, then hesitates, eyes flicking toward my still-tingling chest.
"Can you…try something?" she asks. "Now that the chains are gone."
"Like what?" I ask, already half-guessing and half-dreading.
"Summon a knife."
My stomach flips.
What if it doesn't work?
What if all of that, everything we just did, was for nothing, and I'm still broken, just more heartbreakingly aware of it?
Mira must see the flicker of panic cross my face, because she shifts closer, pressing her shoulder firmly to mine, grounding me.
"I'm right here," she says. "If it doesn't work, it doesn't mean you failed. It just means we're not done."
Her words wrap around me like a shield, like she's standing between me and my own expectations.
I close my eyes.
Reach inward.
The Honmoon meets me halfway, not faint and filtered anymore but eager and bright, like a dog finally let off its leash. Our bond pulses in sync, a steady beat. I can feel Rumi's energy too now, a knock on the door of my awareness from down the hall, curious and relieved and absolutely, obnoxiously nosy. She definitely felt that surge earlier.
"Later," I whisper to her inside my head. "I'll explain later."
Her aura flickers in response, a wordless okay-where-are-my-answers waiting.
I hold out my hand in the physical world, palm up, fingers slightly curled.
"Knives," I whisper. "Come home."
For a moment, nothing happens.
The old fear rears up, snapping its jaws but before it can latch on, something else rises up to meet it. The memory of chains shattering. Of Mira's hand over mine. Of my own voice saying I deserve to be here.
Then, with a rush like a held breath finally exhaled, six familiar points of energy flicker into existence.
Blue light bursts around my hand. Six throwing knives appear in a slow, controlled orbit, gleaming, edges humming with power. They feel solid again. Real. Like six old friends rolling up to a reunion in matching jackets, slightly smug they got invited.
A laugh bubbles out of me, half hysteria, half pure joy. It cracks in the middle and I don't even care.
"I did it," I say, voice breaking.
"I knew you would," Mira says.
She reaches out and plucks one of the knives out of the air with casual familiarity, turning it between her fingers. The blade glints in the low light from my bedside lamp, reflecting her face in tiny, distorted fragments.
"Still sharp," she says approvingly, handing it back.
I catch it reflexively.
The weight settles into my palm like it never left. Like it belongs there.
Right.
Belonging.
"It's not just them," I say suddenly, the realization fizzing through me.
"What?" she asks.
"The lyrics," I whisper, pressing my free hand to my chest. "They're…buzzing."
She raises an eyebrow. "Buzzing."
"Like they want out," I say. "Like they've been banging on the walls in my head and someone finally opened the door. They're lining up. It's annoying, honestly."
Mira smiles, slow and proud. "Then let them," she says. "Later. When you're ready. For now…" She glances at the door, where faint muffled voices drift through, Rumi's sharp edges and Celine's cool calm scraping against each other in the living room. "We should probably rescue Rumi before Celine and her accidentally start a war."
I snort. "You mean before Rumi accidentally starts a war and Celine calmly finishes it."
"Exactly."
She starts to rise, muscles tensing to push off the floor.
I grab her wrist again.
"Wait."
She pauses, looking down at me, brows tilting in question.
"Can we…" I trail off, suddenly shy in a way that feels ridiculous after letting her walk through my soul. "Can we stay here a second longer? Just…like this."
Her expression softens immediately, like I just flipped a switch labeled soft Mira mode.
She sinks back down without hesitation, sliding her arm around my shoulders and pulling me against her. I go willingly, gravity and Honmoon both conspiring to tuck me into her side. Our bodies fit together like we've spent years unconsciously arranging ourselves around this possibility.
I tuck myself under her chin, head resting against her collarbone, our legs tangling easily on the floor. The vinyl of the practice burns, the cold rooftop, the harsh living room lights, they all feel a million miles away.
Her heartbeat thumps steadily against my ear, slower now, finding a rhythm that mine mirrors without me trying.
The Honmoon hums contentedly, like a cat curling up in a sunbeam.
"For the record," I mumble into her skin, words muffled by her tank top, "this might be my new favorite place."
She chuckles quietly, the sound vibrating through her chest and into my cheek. Her fingers trace idle patterns on my arm, circles, lines, little shapes I can't quite identify but all translate to the same thing: I'm here. I'm here. I'm here.
"For the record," she says, "I'm not planning on letting you go."
Warmth spreads through me, deeper and steadier than any burst of adrenaline. Not the frantic, bright kind of warmth I slap over my nerves on stage, but the slow, sinking kind that seeps into bone and stays.
Outside, the city glows. Headlights crawl. Billboards flash. Somewhere beneath all that concrete and chaos, under train tracks and club basements and forgotten subway tunnels, the Demon King is plotting his next move, recalculating now that his favorite sabotage route is blocked.
Let him.
He went after our bond thinking it was a weakness. Something he could unravel. A crack he could pry open.
What he didn't understand is that bonds don't just break. They also heal. They transform. They turn fear into fuel and shame into sharpened edges. They turn three stressed-out idol demon hunters into something he should be very, very afraid of.
Up here, twenty floors above Seoul, wrapped in Mira's arms with my knives humming nearby like loyal dogs and a song forming quietly in the back of my mind, I realize something crystal clear:
I am not too much.
I am exactly enough.
For them.
For this.
For me.
"Hey, Zo," Mira murmurs after a while, voice gone soft and drowsy around the edges.
"Yeah?" I answer, my eyes drifting closed, letting the steady beat of her heart lull me.
"When you write that song," she says, "will you put us in it?"
"You're already in all of them," I say sleepily.
The truth of it settles over us like another blanket.
She huffs a soft, disbelieving little laugh. "Good," she whispers.
I smile against her shoulder, my lips brushing warm skin.
Later, we'll get up. We'll stumble back into the living room, cheeks pink and a little swollen, and endure Rumi's raised eyebrows and Celine's too-knowing stare. We'll explain and argue and adjust our battle plans. We'll stand on some future stage with the Idol Awards lights blinding us and sing a song born out of this night, out of these broken chains and new kisses and raw truths.
We'll fight demons, outside and inside.
We'll face the Demon King together, three strands of Honmoon light braided tighter than before.
But right now, in this moment, I let myself rest.
I let myself belong.
I let myself believe that I am not a placeholder or a novelty or a convenient lyricist.
I'm Zoey.
Their lyricist. Their chaos. Their choice.
And somewhere deep inside, the Honmoon burns a little brighter, ready for whatever comes next.