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Spring had a personal vendetta against Mira.
Or at least, that was what it felt like.
Don’t get her wrong, she loved spring. She loved the way the trees softened, tiny green buds daring to exist where frost had ruled for months. She loved how the air changed, how it carried something sweeter, something hopeful. How the world seemed to stretch after winter, shaking out stiff limbs and remembering how to breathe again.
Spring wasn’t the problem.
Rumi was.
More specifically, Rumi and her annual, militant devotion to spring cleaning.
They had staff. Wonderful, capable staff.
Eunbi and Kwon kept their living space so pristine that Mira sometimes wondered if they secretly polished the air. Hunyu cooked like he was trying to earn a Michelin star every Tuesday.
They were cared for, they were supported, they didn‘t need to bother.
And yet every year, like clockwork, Rumi declared war on dust particles.
It had started in their early idol days — Celine’s insistence that they remain grounded, independent and self-sufficient. No spoiled celebrities who couldn’t boil water without a manager present. Mira understood that, and she respected the decision. She had grown up watching her own family crumble the second a servant took a day off.
She could fold her own laundry, thank you very much.
But this?
This was excessive.
They had one day off this month. One.
And instead of sleeping in or going somewhere nice or — Mira didn’t know — touching grass, she was crouched in the hallway scrubbing a floor that was already so spotless you could operate someone on it.
Rumi was cleaning the windows.
Mira could already picture her half-dangling outside the tower with a cloth in one hand, muttering about streaks only she could see. Bobby would combust if he knew.
The two of them were still arguing about her flying around over a crowd with an aerial hoop during a concert.
Bobby insisted it was unsafe, while she insisted that the fans would love it. She enjoyed going a little extra for the fans, releasing new songs unannounced without coordinating with him or them for the sake of the fans.
That and satisfying her workaholic tendencies. If productivity were oxygen, Rumi would suffocate the second she wasn‘t doing anything.
Mira sighed and scrubbed at the gleaming tile, mostly for show. Her thoughts drifted — as they always did — to Rumi.
Mira loved her.
She loved her with a steadiness that felt immovable. If Rumi asked her to move a mountain, Mira wouldn’t ask why. She’d ask which direction.
And yet.
Rumi stood one careful step away from whatever this thing between the three of them could be. She kept herself just slightly apart. Close enough to laugh with them, to fight beside them, to bleed with them… but never quite close enough to lean into.
She and Zoey weren’t exactly subtle about their attempts to form a polycule.
They dropped hints like breadcrumbs, be it lingering touches, shared looks, or teasing comments that were just ambiguous enough to retreat from.
Either Rumi was spectacularly oblivious—
—or she didn’t want them like that. Maybe she didn‘t swing that way?
Mira tried very hard not to think about the second option.
A soft hum brushed against her ear and she nearly headbutted the bucket.
“By the Honmoon, Zoey!” she snapped, twisting around as far as her crouched position allowed. “How many times have I told you not to do that?”
Zoey stood behind her with the most unapologetic grin imaginable.
“Sorry,” she said, not sorry at all. “I thought you liked it when I hummed in your ear.”
“I do,” Mira muttered with an eye roll, heart still racing. “But only when I know you’re there.”
Zoey laughed.
It was unfair, the way that sound rearranged Mira’s insides. Like someone had turned the brightness up on the world.
“Can I ask you a favor?” Zoey asked, tilting her head.
“Depends.”
“Can you help me clean my room?” She gestured at the already immaculate hallway. “I know you’re very busy and all. This floor looks tragic.”
Mira did her best to fight back a smile.
She didn‘t succeed.
“Rumi assigned me laundry,” Zoey continued. “She wants to finish the windows before lunch.”
“Of course she does,” Mira groaned.
Zoey leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “So?”
Mira pretended to consider it. “What do I get in return?”
Zoey hummed thoughtfully, finger tapping her chin. “Hmm. Let’s see.”
She leaned down until her lips were just barely a breath away from Mira’s, who felt her pulse start to race slightly.
“You get to shower with me.”
“Deal.”
Mira‘s answer was immediate, no hesitation whatsoever.
Zoey burst into laughter, bright and delighted, before leaning in to press a quick, warm kiss against Mira’s lips, one of her hands cupping Mira‘s cheek. It was brief — just a soft press — but it made Mira’s thoughts scatter like startled birds, and her world started to swim.
“Thank you!” Zoey chirped, already springing upright while Mira still felt a little delirious. “I’ll go do laundry. See you later!”
She bounced down the hallway, practically glowing.
Mira watched her go, dazed and smiling as she tried to find her words.
“Don’t forget my payment,” she called after her.
From somewhere near the laundry room, Zoey’s voice floated back.
“As if I ever would.”
Zoey’s room was not a disaster, it was a creative ecosystem.
At least, that was what Zoey would argue if she had to defend herself in court.
The bed looked like it had recently lost a fight with a laundry basket, shirts hanging off the edge in dramatic surrender, while socks were scattered across the battlefield. The desk resembled the aftermath of someone attempting to construct a pipe bomb out of paperclips, highlighters, and sheer enthusiasm, before detonating it out of boredom.
A corkboard leaned against one wall, proudly displaying doodles of demons in increasingly humiliating scenarios. Some wore party hats, one had googly eyes taped on, and several had throwing knives embedded directly between the eyebrows.
Where was she even getting this many knives from?
She made the decision to start with the floor. If she died, she refused to have “tripped over Zoey’s bra and broke her neck” written on her gravestone.
She carried a basket and trash bag inside, and started putting away the clothes. T-shirts, pants, socks, underwear, it all went into the basket. Zoey could sort it out later when Mira brought it all over to her.
While methodically disassembling a large pile of shirts and pants that were as stiff as cardboard, she saw something blue peek out from beneath Zoey‘s bed. She already found a bunch of wrappers and boxes of food, so she didn‘t think much of it as she reached for it–
–and nearly dislocating her wrist.
It was heavy. Very heavy.
The fuck?
The box was covered in chaotic doodles: turtles with swords, stick figures on fire, something that might have been a cat holding a microphone. Across the lid, in messy black lettering:
“Zoey’s bawks!!! Open at your own risk :P”
Mira narrowed her eyes.
She didn’t snoop, she respected peoples´ privacy in the sanctity of their own rooms. She would hate it if someone dug through her things. But Zoey had said to help her clean her room, and how could she properly clean if she didn’t verify whether this… bawks… was trash?
That was just responsible.
She sat down on Zoey‘s bed, the box resting in her lap, as she slowly opened the lid.
Lots of notebooks in all shapes, colours and sizes filled the box to the brim, all of which in various stages of use. Some were dented, had small tears or holes, while others looked brand-new.
She pulled out one of them, a small red one and read the title:
“How to clean a gorilla.”
Of all the possible titles, this wasn‘t one Mira expected, and she quickly covered her mouth with her hand to cover the unexpected snort. A doodle of a small gorilla and a banana framed the title nicely.
She gently placed it down beside her and pulled out the next one. This one was blue, a bunch of small fish and turtles with swords and claws littering the cover:
Next: blue cover, fish and turtles armed to the teeth.
“Demonic Fish and Turtle Hunters: A Comprehensive Guide to Demonic Wildlife Under the Sea, Their Various Subspecies and Natural Enemies.”
…What.
Against her better judgment, she opened it.
It contained a very long glossary sorted after allegiance and danger level. At the very tope were the turtle hunters, or “Tunters”, as the glossary described them:
Turtle Hunters (“Tunters”)
Subspecies:
- Ryus Rumius
- Kangis Miramalus
- Choius Zoeystus
Mira stared at the page.
She did not know whether to laugh, cry, or frame it due to the sheer amount of adorable ridiculousness splayed out before her. She closed the notebook and set it down on the other one beside her, reaching in for the next one.
This one was interesting: A purple cover with gold stars and microphones plastered across it. The title was drawn artistically and flashy, making it seem like the cover from a band.
“Kpop Demon Hunters.”
When Mira opened it, she was confused.
It didn‘t really seem like a regular notebook, but rather a story. She knew Zoey dabbled in writing fanfiction on the side, so she was bound to find some stories in this box, yet this one was different.
It told the story of three women, named Arden, May and Ji-Young. They were demon hunters, who strengthened the Honmoon by singing kpop songs. The more Mira read, the more she realized just how many similarities this story had with their lives.
And how the main vocalist, Arden, was isolating itself from the others. She kept on reading all the small little scenes and summaries for plotpoints: How they won the International Idol Awards five times in a row, how they were chosen by destiny, how their mentor, Ejae, had built the band around Arden after her mother died, and how a rival band called TWICE was stealing their fans from them.
It was too close.
Too specific.
Mira closed it gently and set it on the pile.
“A comprehensive list of the prices of tea in China: 2009 - today”.
The inflation analysis was disturbingly thorough.
“Wedding locations and prices: Seoul, Burbank, the moon.”
What?
“If all the cats in the neighborhood choose me as their leader.”
Extensive political breakdown of feline factions, and why the cats from Ms. Suseul were the most loyal of the lot. Mira respected the dedication.
“Korean-American Fusion Food recipes.”
Gross, but some sound promising. Others are just straight-up crimes against humanity. And why the fuck are most of them just combining tteokbokki with pizza?
“Tier-lists.”
This one was just a wild assortment of tier-lists with various topics. Some of them are crushes, starting with cartoon characters, before slowly moving towards real celebrities. Mira laughs out loud when she spots not one, but seven pages where it‘s countless photos of Rumi‘s mother placed at S-Tier.
She paused when she turned the page, and those of the most recent years were just of Rumi and herself, sitting at the very top at S-tier. Dated before she and Zoey had ever officially crossed that line.
Mira felt something warm bloom in her chest.
Until she turned the page and saw Celine ranked just below them.
She shut it.
“Nope,” she muttered. “Not unpacking that today.”
She continued digging through the box, until she found something shiny peeking out between the paper. She pushed some of the books outside and found…
…a gold medal?
From the Olympics?
“Not dealing with that either,” she mumbled to herself, putting it back in the box. As she did, another title caught her eye.
“If Rumi turned out to be a demon and gay"
Mira paused, her fingers still clutched around the medal. She let it go, her fingers slowly moving towards the notebook, gently taking it out and placing the box beside her. The notebook rested lightly in her hands, and she stared at the title. She didn‘t know why, but this felt… weird.
Why would Zoey write this?
What prompted her to write this?
When she opened the notebook, she understood.
The first section was labelled “observations”, and she began to read:
Declined visit to bathhouse.
Why? Too shy? Prude? Secretly overwhelmed by how hot we are and fears spontaneous combustion?
Mira snorted.
Is going to bathhouse not her thing?
Disproved. Has repeatedly said she’d like to join “some other time.”
Suspicious.
Covering up + moral intensity = either extreme modesty OR demon.
Demon theory currently at 32% probability.
32.5%.
32.8%.
WHY IS IT RISING.
Mira continued to read through the entire thing, filing away all the information and comparing it to her observations.
She thought Rumi was hiding something from them but thought Rumi might be gay (which the notebook seemed to also conclude based on analysis), not that she might be a demon.
But how is that possible?
Did she make a deal?
The following page of the notebook seemed to disagree.
Too clear of a moral compass and strong will, very unlikely to fall to demonic corruption.
Maybe her mom was a demon? Or she boned one?
Important part:
Doesn’t matter what she is.
I just want her to feel safe enough to tell us.
Additional note:
Save the idea of Rumi´s mom having boned a demon for potential fanfic.
Mira slammed the notebook shut, face red.
“What is wrong with this wonderful girl?” she whispered.
A soft cough startled her, and the notebook flew up into the air before Mira could stop herself. Leaning against the doorframe stood Zoey, arms crossed, a smile on her face.
“Well well well, now who did I catch snooping in my stuff?”
“I didn‘t snoop,” Mira tried to defend herself. “I was cleaning, and the box—”
“Relax,” Zoey said with a laugh and a shake of her head, as she pushed herself off the doorframe and walked towards Mira. “Did you really think I would‘ve left something out in the open like that if I didn‘t want you to see it?”
She got a point; Zoey was very good at hiding things. They still find some of her snacks hidden behind some of their awards or under plants.
“But why would you—” Mira started to ask, before she stopped herself. “…You wanted me to find this specific book, didn‘t you?”
"Ding Ding Ding, we have a winner!" Zoey exclaimed excitedly. “Do you know how looong I‘ve waited to finally tell someone about this? Aaaargh, the suspense was killing me! I‘ve been sitting on this for two months and I desperately needed someone to confirm to me I wasn‘t crazy!”
“About Rumi being a demon?”
“About her being a demon and gay, duh!” Then her playful tone crumbled a little, as she got more serious. “I just—” Zoey exhaled. “If something’s wrong, I want her to tell us. Not carry it alone.”
Mira nodded. “We love her,” she said.
Zoey smiled faintly. “Exactly. Demon, human, whatever. I just want her safe.”
There was a pause.
Zoey leaned back on her hands, staring at the ceiling.
“I have a plan,” she said.
Mira closed her eyes briefly, already pinching her nose.
“Is it a normal plan?”
“…It´s emotionally motivated.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
Zoey grinned.
Mira sighed — but she was already listening.
Zoey’s plan, as it turned out, was deceptively simple.
“We stop dancing around it,” she said, sitting cross-legged on the carpet in Rumi´s room, while Mira remained on the edge of the bed, notebook still warm in her hands. “We don’t accuse, we don’t ambush. We just… make it clear that whatever she is, she doesn’t have to hide it.”
Mira raised a brow. “And how exactly do you suggest we, or rather you, do that without sounding like we’ve been conducting a full investigative operation behind her back?”
Zoey winced. “Okay, first of all, rude. This was a respectful investigation.”
“You assigned percentages.”
“They were conservative estimates.”
Mira huffed a quiet laugh despite herself, then sobered. “You really think she’s a demon?”
“Maybe,” Zoey said, and the humor drained from her face completely. “I don’t think she’s evil. I don’t think she’s dangerous. I think she’s scared. Because of what Celine taught us to do.”
That settled into Mira’s chest like a stone.
“What’s the plan?” Mira asked quietly.
Zoey stood, brushing imaginary dust off her shorts. “We corner her.”
“That is the opposite of what you just said.”
“Not physically corner. Emotionally corner. With love!”
“That’s worse.”
Zoey grinned. “Trust me.”
They didn’t have to wait long.
Rumi came back inside just before noon, hair slightly wind-tousled, sleeves rolled down, faint streaks of cleaner staining the hoodie. She looked bright and flushed from the spring air, satisfied in a way only someone who had defeated invisible streaks could be. The fact she didn´t roll up her sleeves, as if she was hiding something, pointed towards their theory.
Maybe she was concealing patterns?
“The windows are done,” she announced, slipping off her shoes neatly by the door.
“Did you polish the sun while you were at it?” Mira asked.
Rumi’s mouth twitched. “It was smudged.”
Zoey shot Mira a look that said now.
Mira’s pulse kicked up.
“Hey,” Zoey said lightly. “Can we talk for a second?”
Rumi glanced between them. Something in her expression sharpened immediately — alert, cautious. But she immediately smoothed her features behind her idol persona.
“Did something happen?”
“No,” Mira said quickly. “Nothing bad.”
Which, in hindsight, was exactly what someone would say before something bad.
Rumi set down the cloth she’d been holding. “Okay.”
They moved to the living room. The sunlight poured in through the freshly cleaned windows, bright and almost too honest. Mira suddenly wished for clouds. Zoey didn’t sit. She paced once, then stopped in front of Rumi.
“So,” she began. “Hypothetically.”
“That’s never a good start,” Mira deadpanned.
“Hypothetically,” Zoey pressed on, “if you were hiding something important from us because you were afraid it would change how we see you… that would be unnecessary.”
Silence.
Mira watched Rumi carefully.
There it was.
That stillness. Like every muscle in her body had locked.
“I’m not hiding anything,” Rumi said evenly, too fast and sounding way too automatic, like she had rehearsed it a dozen times in front of a mirror.
It was too even.
Mira stepped closer, softer. “You don’t have to protect us from yourself.”
Rumi’s eyes flicked to her, sharp. “I’m not.”
“You are,” Zoey said, gentler now. “All the time.”
For a long moment, Rumi said nothing. Her jaw worked once, twice, like she was swallowing words that refused to go down.
“I think I forgot something outside,” she said suddenly, already getting up.
Mira placed a hand on her shoulder and gently, but firmly, pushed her back down. “No more hiding,” she muttered.
“I´m not hiding anything!”
“Rumi…” Zoey’s voice lost all teasing. “We’re not attacking you.”
“Yes, you are,” Rumi shot back, the polished mask finally cracking. “You’re cornering me in my own living room over something that doesn’t exist.”
“It does,” Mira said quietly.
Rumi laughed once, sharp and brittle. “You decided to stage an intervention for a conspiracy? Is that what this is?”
Zoey flinched. “It’s not a conspiracy.”
“It has percentages,” Mira butted in.
“They were conservative.”
“This isn’t funny,” Rumi snapped.
The room went still.
Mira had seen Rumi angry before — righteous on stage, fierce in battle, sharp in interviews when someone crossed a line. But this was different. This was defensive.
“You don’t get to decide what I’m hiding,” Rumi continued, breath quickening. “You don’t get to dissect me because you think you’ve noticed something off about me.”
“We’re not dissecting you,” Mira said. “We’re worried.”
“I don’t need you to be worried.”
“Too bad,” Zoey said, stepping closer. “We are.”
Rumi stood abruptly, brushing off Mira´s hand. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop looking at me like that,” she hissed.
“Like what?” Mira asked as she got up as well, though she knew.
“Like I’m about to spill some grand secret.”
The words hung there.
Mira softened. “Are you?”
Rumi’s throat worked.
“No.”
Zoey didn’t push. She didn’t joke. She just said, very gently, “Then tell us the truth.”
Rumi’s hands clenched at her sides.
For a second, Mira thought she might actually leave. Walk out. Climb down the fire escape and vanish into the city air until the tension dissolves.
Instead, Rumi laughed again — quieter this time. It sounded exhausted.
“You don’t understand,” she said.
“Then make us understand,” Mira replied.
Rumi dragged a hand down her face, shoulders shaking slightly.
“My father was a demon,” she said at last.
Zoey’s brows knit together. “What?”
“My mother wasn’t the one who wasn’t human.” Her voice felt scraped raw now. “It was my father.”
Mira felt something in her chest drop. Rumi stared at the floor as if it might swallow her.
“He wasn’t… monstrous,” she rushed on, defensiveness creeping back in. “He wasn’t hurting people. He wasn’t some storybook villain. He was just—” She swallowed. “Different. Older. He was immune to Gwi-Ma´s control. When-…,” her voice faltered slightly. “When I was born, I had patterns on my chest, just a tiny speck of purple. Then they started to grow. When I was a kid they would flare when I got upset. Or scared. Or angry.” She let out a humorless breath. “Which was often.”
Zoey’s hands twitched like she wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure she was allowed to.
“That‘s why you wear long sleeves,” Mira concluded. Rumi nodded.
“They started spreading in recent years. That's why I kept changing outfits and wore those stupid turtlenecks in the summer heat.”
“So where does Celine fit into this?” Zoey asked carefully. “Surely she knew.”
Rumi’s expression changed at the mention of her name. Not to fear, exactly.
Something more… complicated.
“Celine found out when I was born,” she said. “After my father disappeared.”
“And?” Zoey asked.
“She didn’t panic,” Rumi said. “She just told me to hide it, that the golden Honmoon would make my patterns disappear.”
Zoey exchanged a look with Mira.
“She taught me control,” Rumi continued. “Breathing techniques. Focus exercises. How to redirect the energy of my demonic self into performance instead of letting it surface. She said if we wanted to turn the Honmoon golden, I couldn‘t let anyone know about this.”
“Why?” Mira asked. “Why was she that serious about it?”
“She told me nothing could change until my patterns are gone,” Rumi added. “Until there’s no visible trace. No proof. She said that you wouldn’t understand. You‘d want clean lines. Human or demon. Light or dark.”
Tears started to swell in Rumi‘s eyes.
“Rumi,” Mira said gently. “Do you believe that?”
Rumi hesitated.
“I believe,” she said slowly, voice shaking, “that if the Honmoon turns golden, fewer people get hurt. Fewer cracks. Fewer things slipping through.” Her gaze flickered. “If hiding myself helps that happen… then it’s worth it.”
“And what about you?” Zoey demanded.
Rumi’s composure wavered again.
“What about me?”
“You don’t get to martyr yourself for a theoretical golden glow,” Zoey said, voice shaking. “You don’t get to decide you’re expendable.”
“I’m not expendable.”
“Then stop acting like you are.”
“I was trying to protect you,” she said.
“We know,” Mira replied.
Zoey’s voice softened. “But you don’t have to protect us from loving you.”
Rumi let out a breath she’d probably been holding since this conversation began.
“I don’t know how to stop hiding,” she confessed.
Mira brushed her thumb gently over the faint glow beneath her skin.
“Then start small,” she said.
Zoey offered a shaky smile. “Step one: no more running to ‘check something outside.’”
A weak laugh escaped Rumi.
“Step two: Show us who you really are.” Then Zoey quickly added, “If you‘re comfortable of course.”
Rumi looked down, then towards Mira, then Zoey, then back down again.
Slowly, her hand went to her sleeve, and started to slowly move it up. Jagged purple patterns appeared, snaking up her forearm.
They stood in silence for a moment.
“Sick,” Mira muttered.
It was just so unexpected that Rumi started giggling, despite the tears in her eyes, causing all of them to fall into fits of quiet laughter.
“While we‘re at the topic of… confessions,” Rumi started after catching her breath. “I—… I like you, both of you. Very much. I’ve known for years,” she admitted. “I just didn’t think I was allowed to want anything else complicated.”
“Complicated?” Mira echoed.
“You two,” Rumi said, and her voice softened in a way Mira had only ever heard in quiet moments. “Whatever it is that you two have. I’ve noticed your little stunts,” Zoey elbowed Mira, with an expression that said ‘I told you so’. “But I knew as long as I had these patterns, I couldn‘t join you. I didn’t want to stain that.”
Zoey’s grip tightened. “Rumi. You are not a stain.”
Mira reached up, cupping Rumi’s face, forcing her to hold her gaze.
“You don’t get to decide you’re unworthy of us,” she said. “That’s our choice.”
“I’m not human,” she repeated, smaller now.
Mira leaned forward until their foreheads touched.
“Good,” she whispered. “Humans are overrated.”
A wet laugh escaped Rumi before she could stop it.
Zoey smiled through shining eyes, as she wrapped her arms around the two of them. “Also, statistically speaking, we already suspected.”
Rumi groaned faintly. “Of course you did.”
“You’re terrible at hiding,” Zoey informed her. “Emotionally, hiding emotionally. Supernatural-ly? Very impressive. Emotionally? Tragic.”
Rumi let out a shaky breath that turned into something freer.
“You don‘t hate me?” she asked.
Mira shook her head immediately.
Zoey didn’t hesitate. “No, we love you very much. Both platonically and romantically.”
Something in Rumi finally gave way. She folded into them, as more tears finally spilled free, as she tried her best to hold back the sobs. And still, the two of them held her as if anchoring her to the world.
“We’ll figure it out,” Mira said.
“Together,” Zoey added.
Rumi pulled back slightly, eyes red but steady.
“I love you,” she said.
Not vague. Not deflected. Direct. Mira felt the words like impact.
“I love you too,” she answered immediately.
Zoey grinned through tears. “Finally. Took you long enough.”
Rumi huffed a watery laugh. “I was busy cleaning.”
“Of course you were,” Mira said fondly.
Outside, spring carried on — bright, stubborn and alive.
Inside, Rumi stood in the sunlight pouring through windows she had polished herself, no longer a step apart from the people she loved.