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Rumi‘s hands moved expertly, the sharp blade of her saingeom gliding along the wet stone with practiced ease.
While her fingers worked meticulously, she hummed a quiet tune. The melody was intimately familiar – an old children’s song, a lullaby from simpler times. She didn’t think about the woman who had sung it to her, once upon a time. She refused to. Not tonight. Not when she needed her hands steady.
There was no time for sentimentalities, not now, not when the day she had been waiting for had finally arrived.
After weeks of planning, of gathering intelligence and tracking routes, their paths would cross tonight. Rumi was sure of it.
From all the information she had gleaned, it was obvious where her target would be heading. First, the town’s council hall to collect her sizable reward. Then, the bathhouse, to scrub away days of travel, sweat, and dried blood from the hunt. Demon hunters rarely rested between bounties; the work was too profitable, too relentless. But today, her target definitely would. Needed to, really, after clearing out an entire nest of rogue demons. Even hunters needed a break and she was no exception.
Her final stop for the day would be the local brothel, where she would drown her sorrows with drinks and a pretty face.
Tonight, Rumi needed to be that pretty face.
The preparations were almost complete. She had already paid off the madam of this establishment, an outrageously large sum to ensure not only her silence, but her active support in the ruse. The girls working here would fend off any unwanted attention. They would also steer clear of her target, after Rumi had talked to them and provided a rudimentary description.
The room she had picked for this night was the one with the smallest window, barely large enough for a cat to squeeze through — not feasible for a quick escape, which left only the door. Once they were inside, Rumi would lock it to ensure the only way out would be through her.
All of this was as close to perfect as she could get with the limited time she had. But perfection wasn’t necessary. Only inevitability was.
Rumi placed the saingeom on the table, an impressive piece of craftsmanship. Not many could call such a fine weapon their own, but there was no illusion as to why she was carrying this masterpiece. A half‑demon wielding a blade of this quality was not something people in these parts looked kindly upon.
Then again, there didn’t need to be any weapon at all in her possession for her to draw suspicion. For that, she simply needed to exist.
But she had chosen this blade as much as it had chosen her, and she would make sure it saw use.
Retrieving her satchel from the open drawer, she wrapped the wet stone, tucked it inside, placed the satchel back in the drawer and slid it closed again.
She carefully ran a piece of cloth along the blade before sheathing it. Then she sauntered towards the bed.
The dress she was wearing was a flimsy thing, hugging her curves tightly, showing way too much skin for her comfort. It felt like wearing someone else’s confidence, someone braver, someone burdened in a much different way.
She looked good in it, though. After all, she had to be the most beautiful woman in the room tonight, or else her plan would fail.
Rumi knelt down next to the wooden frame of the bed, hand gliding along the lower edge until her fingers brushed against metal. She took her weapon and placed it along the inside of the bed frame, slotting it into the brackets she had mounted there. It needed to be hidden from view, yet accessible at a moment‘s notice.
She had practiced the retrieval of her weapon beforehand — dozens of times until she knew exactly how to move, how deep to reach, and how to angle her arm. She could‘ve placed it there already, but Rumi preferred to leave the sharpening of her blade for last. It always had a calming effect on her, something to focus on, something steady and repetitive. Something that reminded her she was capable, even when her heart wavered.
As she rose again, Rumi dusted off the fabric over her knees, however little there was of it. She smoothed her hands over the dress, stopping mid-motion when her eyes landed on the patterns along her arms.
Right.
Rumi swallowed hard, tasting anger on her tongue. The patterns. She had almost forgotten to take care of them. The marks that branded her as not-quite-human. The marks that made people flinch before they even knew her name.
With a sigh, Rumi walked back to the desk where her satchel remained stashed. She retrieved a small vial from it, the liquid inside sloshing with the movement. She could already smell its acrid stench, even before uncorking it.
Rumi pinched her nostrils between her thumb and index finger, using her other thumb to flick the small plug off the vial. She brought it to her lips and tilted her head back, the potion assaulting her taste buds and burning its way down her throat. A single drop escaped the corner of her mouth, sliding down her chin before falling to the floorboards and soaking into the wood. Rumi wiped the traces of it from her jaw.
Her skin began to prickle, as if a million shards of ice were piercing her body. She looked at the small mirror atop the table, watching her patterns fade into oblivion. The glamour would hold for a few hours. Long enough to fool a demon hunter — even one like her.
Done.
Now all she needed to do was wait. Kang Mira would definitely come. She had to. Rumi had built this trap too carefully for her not to.
And Rumi? She would catch her eye, take her upstairs, and seduce her, leaving her defenseless before plunging her blade into the woman‘s heart. That was the plan.
But plans were easy. Killing Mira — the most notorious demon hunter in all of Korea, the woman who had made a career out of hunting Rumi’s kind for coin and glory — would be something else entirely.
Tonight, one of them would die. Rumi could only pray it would be the right one.
~~~~~
She didn’t need to wait long. Her target arrived within the hour, just as predicted — punctuality born from hunger. Desire. The kind that drew people from all walks of life to a place like this.
She sat at the bar with a drink in her hand, observing the people around her, when the door to the establishment flung open. The woman who stepped through was an absolute vision. Tall, lean, with fiery pink hair and an even fiercer look in her sharp eyes.
She wore simple clothes, much simpler than Rumi had expected — thick leather boots, black sturdy pants, and a long‑sleeved white shirt. No armor except for a shoulder harness made from dark leather and matching bracers. Not a single weapon on her, at least none that were visible. Which meant nothing. Demon hunters were notorious for hiding blades in places most people didn’t think to check.
Kang Mira strode into the brothel like she owned the place, confident and calculated. Her eyes scanned over the crowd, briefly landing on Rumi before moving on. Her gaze was piercing, searching, assessing. Rumi could tell she wasn’t just taking in the scenery. She was mapping the room — exits, threats, potential bounties. Hunters never truly rested, not even in places meant for pleasure.
When she was finally finished, those sharp brown eyes returned to Rumi immediately. Predictably.
Rumi smiled into her drink, even as a shiver ran down her spine at the sheer intensity in that gaze. It seemed almost too easy. But she had worked hard for this — the dress, the glamour, the room upstairs waiting like a sprung trap. She allowed herself the smallest flicker of pride, but it was fleeting.
The way Mira stalked towards her made Rumi feel like prey. A strange, unwelcome echo of her own kin — the demons who never saw the blade coming until it was too late.
She briefly wondered if this was how they felt right before this hunter struck.
“How much for the night?”
The small hairs at the back of her neck stood up, charged with static at the sound of that voice — deep and roughened by travel, a voice that carried the weight of someone who had killed more things than she probably cared to count.
“Twenty,” Rumi replied, trying to keep her voice even.
“Silver?” Mira asked.
Rumi shook her head.
“Oh, really?” Mira quirked an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. She slid into the seat next to her, flagging down the bartender for a drink. Her movements were smooth, practiced — the kind of grace that came from living on the edge of violence, Rumi knew.
“So,” Mira continued, “twenty gold for one night. Seems a bit pricey.”
Rumi turned towards her, angling her upper body in such a way that the hunter got a nice view of her assets. The glamour shimmered faintly under the lantern light – invisible to all eyes but her own – smoothing the patterns on her skin into something human. Something safe and unsuspecting.
“I’m worth every gold piece,” Rumi said, trying her best to sound confident despite feeling a bit out of her depth.
She had to be perfect.
And Mira had to take the bait.
“I can tell.” Mira licked her lips, something wholly subconscious and yet eerily predatory. “But for that kind of money, I expect a little extra.”
“Extra?” Rumi asked. She kept her voice even and sultry. But her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat a reminder of what was at stake. Gods, she was struggling, and the way Mira was looking at her didn’t help.
“I’m feeling a bit kinky tonight. Maybe some tie‑up action. I’ll do you, then you’ll do me.”
The offer was on the table, and Rumi’s heart leapt into her throat. It was entirely too risky. But at the same time—
If she could get Kang Mira tied up and defenseless, killing her would be child’s play.
“Sure.”
The word left her mouth too quickly, too eagerly — but Mira didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did, and simply didn’t care. Hunters liked confidence. They liked boldness. They liked the illusion of control.
Rumi was about to give her all of it.
And then, afterwards — after she was done giving — she would take everything.
~~~~~
The walk up the stairs carried a quiet heaviness, each step holding a tension she couldn’t shake. Mira was trailing her dutifully, drink in hand. The wooden steps groaned beneath them, their creaks echoing in the narrow stairwell like a warning Rumi refused to heed. They ascended slowly, unhurriedly. Rumi’s controlled movements belied the urgency itching under her skin.
Every measured step brought her closer to the fulfillment of an oath she had not taken herself, but one that was bestowed upon her anyways.
A family debt that rested on her shoulders with the weight of a mountain ridge. A burden she had carried so long it had fused with her bones.
The corridor before them seemed to stretch endlessly. Lanterns flickered along the walls, casting wavering shadows that danced like restless spirits. The occasional noise — a laugh, a moan, a scream — filtered through the doors on either side as they walked past. The sounds pressed in on her, reminders of the many lived stories contained within these walls, reminders that tonight she was just another ghost passing through.
Her pulse spiked when they finally reached the room she had prepared.
She opened it. The hinges gave a soft whine, as if protesting what was about to happen.
Mira strode inside, giving it a once‑over, eyes lingering on the bed for a breath. Her gaze was sharp and assessing, the gaze of someone who had survived too many ambushes to ever truly relax.
Rumi moved to close the door behind her and oh so gently placed the key in the hole, turning it once before sliding it back into the small cloth fold of her dress.
When she turned, Mira was standing at the desk on the far wall, back towards her. She took another sip from her drink, then placed it on the table. Next to it, she deposited a small leather pouch that rustled with coin. Rumi was sure that if she were to count it, the money inside would cover her fee and then some. Not that she cared about that at all. Gold meant nothing compared to what she stood to gain — or lose — tonight.
Mira’s attention snapped back to Rumi, facing her with that same predatory look from before. A flash of something hungry and feral passed over her face, there and gone again. It was the look of a hunter who had already decided the outcome of the night.
“Strip,” she ordered, leaning back against the table, hands gripping the edges with controlled force.
Rumi was prepared for this. She could’ve ambushed the demon hunter at any point today, but she had specifically chosen the brothel. This was the most advantageous option, and it came with its price. One that she was willing to pay, just for tonight.
Her breath steadied. Her fingers curled once, twice, around the fabric of her dress. She reminded herself that this was strategy, not surrender.
The straps of her dress slipped off her shoulders with ease. She let it fall to the floor, revealing nothing underneath but skin and goosebumps.
Mira licked her lips, that same feral look returning. There to stay.
“Lie down on the bed.”
Another order. Gently spoken, yet firm.
Rumi’s pulse picked up again, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. The room felt smaller now, the air thicker, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Part of her wanted to reach for the sheets and drape them around herself to cover up, to escape that smoldering gaze.
Instead, she did as she was told, the bed creaking softly as she settled on it.
She moved to lie on her side, head propped up by her arm, facing the other woman expectantly.
Mira stayed rooted to the spot, taking her in for long, unbroken moments. Then she lifted her hand, reaching for the clasp of her shoulder harness. She made quick work of removing it, then her bracers, boots, pants and finally her shirt.
Rumi watched her intently, noting with growing horror the sheer number of scars littering Mira’s entire body. Some small, some large. Some old, some new. All of them a testament to a history drenched in violence and death.
The ones that caught her attention the most were the four long, sweeping claw marks running the length of her torso, from her right collarbone, over her chest and down to her stomach. They were faded and stretched thin, like they had been left there a long time ago. Old wounds, healed but never forgotten — the kind only a demon could leave behind.
“I forgot to ask,” Mira’s voice broke her out of her reverie. “What’s your name?”
“Rumi.” Her lips trembled slightly as she spoke.
She didn’t bother with a fake name. Why would she? One of them would not live to see the next day, so none of it mattered. Not anymore.
“Rumi.” The way Mira said her name sent a treacherous jolt through her body. “Beautiful.”
Every fiber of her being had been trained to hate this woman. To hate every demon hunter that roamed these lands. And Rumi did — with a passion so intense it sometimes felt like it might burn her alive from the inside out. Yet here, with nothing between them but the air they breathed, something else stirred beneath the surface. A low, simmering heat that had nothing to do with hatred.
It was… confusing, to say the least.
This feeling — which was not hate or anger or disgust — had no place in her mission, no place in the life she had been forced to lead. But it was there regardless, stubborn and undeniable. She could not will it away. So she wouldn’t.
She would wield it instead, shape it into another weapon, one that would bring her closer to her ultimate goal.
“I’m Mira.”
Rumi suppressed the urge to laugh and roll her eyes. Of course she knew. Even if she hadn’t been tasked specifically with killing her, she would have known Mira’s name. The woman was a living legend — whispered about in human taverns, cursed in demon dens, feared everywhere else. A hunter whose reputation traveled faster than she did.
Mira reached behind her, where she had set aside the few pieces of armor she’d worn. From the shoulder harness, she retrieved a long strap of leather, untying it where it was fastened to metal loops. She wrapped the leather around her hand a few times, then reached for the belt that had held her pants in place.
She approached the bed and Rumi swallowed hard. An involuntary reaction she silently cursed herself for. She needed to take control now — or at least pretend she had some.
“You said you wanted to be tied down?” Rumi asked, her voice light, feigning innocence.
Mira nodded at first, but then she said, “I’m in the mood for taking, right now. But don’t worry, you’ll have your turn, I promise. I want to feel those pretty lips all over me, just not quite yet.”
The mattress dipped slightly with Mira’s weight as she kneeled on it, looming over Rumi.
Her mouth felt suddenly dry.
She tried not to stare too much, but it seemed impossible. Beneath all the scars was still a stunning young woman, with toned muscles and full breasts. A woman who was painfully, unmistakably human.
Rumi felt the tug of conflicting emotions. The revulsion trained into her bones and a sudden, reluctant awe that made her fingers clench the sheets beneath her.
Mira took her hands, and Rumi shivered at the gentleness of the touch — she had been bracing for much rougher treatment. It was unexpected. And yet, strangely enough, it was not entirely unwelcome.
The leather strap was wrapped around her wrists tightly, but not enough to hurt.
Her stomach twisted with nerves. This was the part where she needed to trust in herself and her judgement — in all her preparations, all her training, all the lies she’d told to get here. Let Mira take from her whatever it was she wanted. And then, afterwards, she would finally be free.
Mira must’ve sensed the slight tremble in Rumi’s fingers, because she paused.
“Don’t worry, I’ll stop if you tell me to.” Her voice carried a softness that felt strangely out of place coming from someone like her — steady, earnest, almost gentle.
“It— It’s fine,” Rumi lied through her teeth.
Nothing about this was fine. She would not be able to reach for her saingeom until Mira untied her again. She would be at the complete mercy of this woman. It was the very definition of not fine, but necessity had long since outweighed comfort.
Mira smiled at her. Not a grin, not a smirk. Just a simple smile.
It was disarming in a way Rumi hadn’t prepared for, a warmth she didn’t know how to meet.
“Lie down on your back and lift your wrists over your head.”
Her heart hammered a wild beat in her chest. Mira’s voice held so much authority that Rumi’s body reacted before her mind could catch up, a conditioned response she despised and relied on in equal measure.
Mira looped her belt around the leather strap that was binding her wrists together, then fastened it to the headboard. The buckle rattled with a deadly finality, Mira tugging once to ensure it held.
“Perfect,” she breathed, moving back a little to admire her handiwork. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”
Rumi bit her lower lip to stop herself from whimpering. It had been so long since someone had called her anything other than ‘half‑breed’ or ‘demon spawn’. So long since anyone had looked at her without fear, disgust, or suspicion. Since she’d allowed someone to get close enough to see her like this. Vulnerable and bare.
“I’m going to taste you for a bit, then you can have your go, yeah?”
Rumi nodded, her throat tight, her mind a storm of doubt and determination. She desperately hoped she had made the right decision.
Her breath caught a little when Mira touched her thighs, gently spreading them apart so she could move to settle between them. Looming over her once again, Rumi found herself squirming under Mira’s watchful eyes. The hunger in them had never really left, but it was tempered by something else now — a flicker of softness, a shadow of something almost… sad.
It was a look that didn’t fit the stories Rumi had been told, nor the woman she had expected to face tonight.
But Rumi wasn’t given long to dwell on the shift.
Eager lips latched onto her throat, sucking the skin right above her pulse point. The fingers of Mira’s right hand ghosted up her side, higher and higher, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Her palm was warm as it eventually cupped Rumi’s breast, massaging the supple flesh there with the utmost care. A moan escaped Rumi at the touch, pleasurable little jolts of lightning travelling up and down her body.
Mira trailed open-mouthed kisses past her collarbone right to the valley between her breasts. Rumi pulled against her restraints, fighting the renewed urge to turn away, to cover herself up any way she could. She pressed the side of her face into the pillow as Mira steered her attention to the left, kissing the swell of her breast until she reached a stiffened nipple.
Her tongue swirled around it, once, twice, before she closed her mouth over it and sucked.
“Mira,” Rumi gasped, back arching off the bed. She couldn’t help herself, the feeling was electric. Pure static riling up her insides, pooling steadily between her legs.
Gods, she was getting so wet from Mira’s touch.
Rumi should hate this, should hate every second of it. This was her enemy on top of her, taking however much she wanted from Rumi. It should’ve made her nauseous. But instead, she lifted her hips, seeking friction, losing what little self control she still had to chase after everything Mira was willing to give.
Unperturbed by the movement beneath her, Mira took her sweet time, caressing her with her mouth and tongue — almost methodically, like she wanted to take Rumi apart at the seams.
Eventually, she moved to Rumi‘s other breast to pay it the same attention.
“You’re so beautiful, Rumi.”
Mira looked up for a beat, their eyes meeting fully for the first time in this position. Rumi had expected the sight to make her feel like prey again, to shrink her back into the role of something hunted and cornered. As if she was lesser than the woman who had bound her. But she found none of that in Mira’s gaze. No cruelty. No dominance meant to belittle.
Only adoration. Only desire. Clear and unguarded.
She had heard so many stories. Of the ruthless hunter, of her brash and abrasive nature, of sharp edges and cold eyes. Tales whispered with equal parts awe and dread. They came not just from Rumi’s own kind, but from humans as well. Mira was feared, her name spoken like a warning.
Yet Rumi saw none of that tonight. Not a trace. Only the woman beneath the legend, stripped of every rumor and shadow.
Teeth scraped across her skin as Mira shifted down her body, lower and lower, leaving little love bites below her navel. Rumi squirmed. The cool air inside the room did nothing to temper the heat blazing through her flesh.
A small whimper escaped her when those perfectly pouty lips moved to the inside of one thigh, sucking dark bruises into the skin there.
“Please.”
Rumi barely recognized her own voice. She was supposed to kill this woman, not beg for her touch. The contradiction twisted sharply inside her, a reminder of the line she had already crossed. Her body tensed in anticipation all the same.
Rumi’s plea was met with a throaty chuckle. A sound far too confident, far too knowing, for her fraying composure.
“I’ll give you everything you want, just relax.”
The words washed over her like warm breath, unsettling in their gentleness, dangerous in their promise.
A reply was on the tip of her tongue, but it died the moment Mira’s mouth moved over her center. The sensation erased all conscious thought from her mind, her brain rewiring itself with every eager lick.
The taste of her seemed to stir something in Mira, too. She moaned against Rumi, those delicious vibrations sending her spiralling even further.
Rumi’s hips bucked up as her control frayed at the edges. She wanted to chase that feeling, succumb to it, let it drag her under and drown her. Just for tonight. Just for a few blissful moments.
Strong hands moved to hold her hips down and press her more firmly into the mattress, grounding her.
“Mira,” she whined this time, Mira’s skilled tongue licking greedily between her folds.
The sensation kept building and sent sparks through her entire body.
Then that same tongue dipped lower to tease at her entrance.
Rumi ached to bring her hands down and tangle them into those fiery pink strands of hair, to press Mira’s face more firmly into her. She needed her inside. She needed Mira to take her apart and leave her shattered.
“Please — fuck — I need you,“ she pleaded.
She would beg and plead and whimper if it meant the woman on top of her would keep moving, keep taking.
Suddenly, Mira moved away from her. A desperate sob tore itself free from her throat, instantly missing the warmth of her mouth.
“No,” Rumi whimpered helplessly. “Don’t stop, don’t—”
Mira snaked her left arm over her hips to keep her grounded. It freed up her right hand, which travelled lower, fingertips gliding along her searing skin.
“Shhh, I’ll give you everything you never knew you needed,” she purred.
Rumi keened at those words. Gods, she wanted everything from Mira. Her words, her touch, her devotion. Everything.
A single finger parted her folds, stroking, gathering some of the wetness there before slowly easing inside.
Rumi gasped. The feeling was overwhelming, a tiny speckle of relief that soon turned into steadily building pressure.
Mira moved nice and slow, thrusting into her at a leisurely pace. It was maddening, a rhythm far too tame, far too controlled. Rumi rolled her hips, meeting every single one of Mira’s lazy thrusts with a frenzied urgency of her own.
“More,” she begged, her voice raw and desperate.
On the next languid pump, Mira added another finger, stretching Rumi’s insides deliciously. She felt so full, so desired and claimed. Each curl of those fingers left her breathless, moaning and begging for more. Faster, harder. She needed—
Mira’s lips returned to her, sealing over her clit — sucking hard — and Rumi saw stars.
She came with a scream, losing all sense of self. Her orgasm crashed over her in brutal waves, walls squeezing tightly around Mira’s fingers. She kept her eyes shut, focussing wholly on the feeling of Mira taking her apart. It had been far too long since anyone had.
It took long moments for the last tremors to subside, for her breathing to even out again. Mira kept her grounded through every aftershock, providing a steady, oddly soothing presence.
After a while, Mira withdrew her fingers, the action eliciting a pathetic whine from Rumi. She could feel Mira lapping at her for another few blissful moments, cleaning her up with gentle care.
Then, suddenly, the mattress shifted and Mira’s weight disappeared.
Rumi’s eyes snapped open just in time to see her rising from the bed with quiet, practiced grace. She lifted her head slightly — finding the action surprisingly strenuous in her current post-orgasm haze — to observe the woman’s retreating form.
“Don’t worry, I’ll untie you in a moment,” Mira tossed back over her shoulder.
The words sounded earnest enough, but Rumi found no comfort in them. Even through the haze in her mind, she could tell something was off.
Mira reached the desk where she had previously abandoned her drink and took a long sip. Her posture shifted as she set the cup down, shoulders rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths.
With her back still to Rumi, she braced against the table, hands splayed out in front of her. The muscles in her shoulders and back stood out in sharp relief, tense beneath the dim light, as if she were gathering herself for something difficult.
“But first, I need to apologize,” she said suddenly. Her voice had changed — stronger, steadier, carrying a weight that hadn’t been there before. “Because I need to break my promise.”
“What?” Rumi choked out, the word thin and broken. A cold spike of dread shot through her, tightening every muscle in her body.
“I admire your dedication to the task. But I’m not going to let a half‑demon assassin tie me down and drive a blade through my chest.”
The words were calm, almost playful — but not in a triumphant or mocking way. They sounded more like a simple statement of fact, delivered by someone who seemed entirely too relaxed for the situation.
Panic seized Rumi’s heart, squeezing it so tightly that her breath stuttered.
Her gamble hadn’t paid off. And now, with Mira’s calm voice hanging in the air, Rumi understood with chilling clarity just how badly she had miscalculated.