Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“We are huntress, voices strong,
Fighting demons with our song.
Fix the world and make it right,
When darkness finally meets the light…”

The words echoed in the training hall, fragile but focused — a child’s voice reciting something older than she could truly understand.

Rumi sat kneeling on the padded mat, legs folded under her, violet hair falling like a silken waterfall down her back. It shimmered faintly in the dim morning light filtering through the narrow windows, strands catching on the breeze from the cracked-open skylight above. The air smelled of dust, metal, and sweat — the scent of every morning.

Behind her, Celine worked in silence. Her fingers were strong and methodical, tugging Rumi’s hair into tight, disciplined sections. The braid she wove was not decorative. It was efficient. Functional. There was no pause, no softness in her movements. If it pulled, Rumi said nothing. She’d learned early that comfort was not part of the training.

“Again,” Celine said flatly.

Rumi took in a slow breath.

“We are huntress, voices strong—”

“Louder.”

She raised her voice.

“Fighting demons with our song—”

“Enunciate.”

Rumi pushed her lips harder around the syllables, biting them into the air.

“Fix the world and make it right—”

Celine tugged the braid tighter.

“When darkness finally meets the light.”

The final word hung in the air for a moment. Then:

“Again.”

Rumi’s shoulders tensed. She wanted to ask how many more times, but she already knew the answer: until it was perfect. Until she could say it half-dead and bleeding and still not miss a word. Until it wasn’t a song anymore, but muscle memory.

“We are huntress…”

Again and again.

By the fifth repetition, her voice was hoarse. By the eighth, her back had straightened on its own, less from pride and more from ingrained instinct — from knowing Celine was watching, always watching, with the gaze of a woman who didn’t believe in rest or excuses or mercy.

When Celine finally tied off the braid with a tight loop of black cord, she circled in front of Rumi and crouched. Her face was pale and sharp, not hard like stone — harder. Like steel carved into human shape. Her grey eyes took in Rumi’s expression as if searching for flaws in a blade.

“It’s not just a song,” she said.

“I know,” Rumi whispered.

“No. You don’t. It’s a weapon. A rule. A warning. You will learn it until it becomes your breath.”

Rumi nodded. Her throat burned. But something deeper than pain stirred under her ribs — uncertainty.

“Do… all demons have to die?” she asked, voice barely above a breath.

Celine stilled.

For a moment, the quiet was a little too quiet.

“Yes,” she said at last, her tone stripped of emotion. “All of them.”

Rumi frowned. “Even if they don’t try to hurt us?”

Celine’s eyes narrowed. “They will.”

“But… what if they don’t?”

A slow inhale. No answer. Not yet.

“And what if… I have patterns?” Rumi asked, almost afraid to look up. “You said I’m different. That I have to move different. That I’m not like the others. So does that mean… I’m dangerous too?”

Celine’s jaw tightened. She didn’t look away — didn’t flinch — but something behind her eyes sharpened like ice splintering under pressure.

Then, without a word, she reached out and gripped Rumi’s chin between her thumb and forefinger — firm, not cruel, but without softness. It wasn’t meant to comfort. It was meant to correct.

“Every demon must be killed,” she said again, voice low and ironclad. “That includes the ones wearing masks. The ones that cry. The ones that look like people. You don’t get to second-guess. You don’t get to hesitate.”

Rumi blinked, her breath catching in her throat. “But what if—”

Celine didn’t let go.

“That’s why you hide what you are,” she said sharply. “You never show your patterns. Never move the same way twice. Never let anyone predict you. If they can track you… they can loop you. And if they can loop you—”

“They can kill me,” Rumi whispered.

Celine released her chin. Stood.

“Good,” she said coldly. “Now get up. Training begins.”

No warmth. No praise.

Just another day in a life where softness was a liability.

Rumi rose to her feet in silence. Her braid was tight against her scalp. Her knees ached. Her throat still itched with the remnants of the song.

But she stood tall.

And as Celine stepped onto the mat, arms already loosening into fighting form, Rumi caught herself whispering the words under her breath — one last time.

“We are huntress, voices strong…”

But now, they didn’t sound like a song at all.

They sounded like a warning.

🦋

Zoey’s room wasn’t big, but it held two worlds.

One wall was covered in Korean picture books, their spines worn and colorful, stacked beneath a faded calendar pinned crookedly to the drywall. Each date was marked in red pen by her mother — in Hangul, which Zoey couldn’t read yet, not all of it — but she knew her birthday was in one of those boxes.

On the opposite wall, superhero stickers peeled off a plastic dresser. There were coloring books with English titles, and a poster of a space princess taped above her tiny desk, where her crayons lay scattered beside wrinkled pages full of drawings.

She drew a lot. Stick figures holding hands, or standing far apart, sometimes behind doors. A red house. A blue apartment. Sun and moon in the same sky. Her writing was a messy mix of half-learned English letters and Korean characters copied from cereal boxes. None of it spelled anything real. It didn’t need to.

That was the space she’d built: a soft middle ground where neither language yelled.

But the walls weren’t thick enough.

“You don’t even talk to her in Korean anymore! 어떻게 배울 수 있어, 이렇게 살면!”
“Because she lives here, Minji! She’s not Korean, she’s American!”

Zoey sat cross-legged between her bed and the wall, hiding behind her toy chest. She could still hear them. Every word hit her like a stone dropped into water, rippling until it filled her chest.

“그건 당신 생각이야. 내가 낳았어, 내가 책임져.”
“We had her! This isn’t just about you! Jesus—do you even hear yourself?”

Her mother’s voice was fast and slicing — like a glass breaking just out of sight. Her father’s was heavy, rough, rising like waves trying to drown everything else. The sounds overlapped, tangled. English slammed into Korean, neither side slowing down, neither understanding.

Zoey didn’t know which parts to hold on to. Her name came up again and again, sharp and jarring.

“Zoey는 한국에서 더 나을 거야!”
“No. No, she’s staying here. You are not taking her.”

“엄마가 필요해! 가족이 필요해!”
“She has family. Right here. With me!”

Her fingers curled into the carpet.

They were talking about her like she was a puzzle piece, something that could be picked up and dropped into a different box depending on who shouted louder.

She stared at the floor. Her violet crayon was lying under her foot. She picked it up, turned it over in her hand, pressed it to a blank corner of a crumpled paper — but she didn’t draw.

She couldn’t.

The room around her trembled like it might split down the middle. Her Korean books on one side, her English toys on the other. Her parents pulling her from opposite walls with voices like ropes.

She covered her ears.

Not hard at first. Just enough to muffle.

The yelling didn’t stop. It got louder.

“당신은 날 뺏으려 해.”
“I’m trying to protect her!”

“거짓말이야! 넌 날—!”

She squeezed harder. Closed her eyes. Her palms pressed so tight she could feel the blood in her fingers. Her heart pounded in her throat.

And then, a sound — quiet and cracked — slipped out of her mouth.

A hum.

Not a tune she knew. Not a song she’d learned. Just a sound, soft and low, like she could build a wall with it. A blanket of noise over the storm.

She rocked in place. Back and forth. Her breath hitching, but the hum didn’t stop.

She imagined it getting bigger, like a bubble she could crawl into. Maybe it could cover the calendar, the posters, the yelling, the pulling, the choices.

Maybe if she kept humming, she wouldn’t have to choose a side.

Maybe the noise in her head would finally go quiet.

🦋

Mira had always been too much.

Too fast. Too loud. Too wild.

Her knees were always scraped, her palms stained with sap or chalk or someone else’s blood. The world never told her who to be — it told her who not to be. And she defied it, fists clenched, hair tangled, eyes bright with something no one could name.

She was six when she bit another kid for the first time.

The boy had pushed her little brother in the schoolyard — shoved him hard, twice, mocking him with the kind of smile only mean kids wore. Her brother just stood there, red-faced, shoulders hunched, not saying a word.

So Mira lunged.

No one saw it coming. One second she was watching. The next, she was on top of him — biting, punching, growling like an animal. She didn’t stop until two teachers dragged her off, kicking and spitting like her body was still stuck in the fight.

Now, the boy sat on the nurse’s bench with a frozen sponge on his hand and teeth marks on his shoulder.

And Mira stood alone.

“You can’t just attack people, Mira!”
“He was twice your size! What were you thinking?”
“You bit him! Do you know how serious that is?”

Her parents were furious, faces flushed, voices sharper than usual. Her father loomed with heavy footsteps and big words. Her mother paced behind him, muttering too fast to follow, disbelief hanging off every syllable.

Her brother stood off to the side, clean and quiet. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t say she was protecting him. He didn’t say anything.

“Why can’t you be more like your brother?”
“He thinks before he acts. He doesn’t cause scenes.”
“Why can’t you just be normal?”

That one hurt worst.

Mira didn’t yell back. She didn’t cry.

She ran.

Out of the office. Out of the schoolyard. Past the broken gate and into the woods behind the fence where no one ever followed her.

She climbed the nearest tree, fingers scraping bark, legs aching as she hauled herself higher and higher. The wind tugged at her shirt. Branches snapped underfoot, but she didn’t stop until she reached the thick, high limb that felt almost like a throne.

The trees didn’t tell her she was too much.

They just let her be.

And so she sat. Legs pulled close. Arms looped around the branch. Heart still hammering from the fight, the shouting, the silence from the one person she thought would stand beside her.

She tilted her head back. Closed her eyes.

And then — quietly, shakily — she hummed.

Not a tune she’d learned. Not anything from TV or lullabies. Just a string of notes that tumbled out of her mouth like leaves in wind. A sound to keep her company. A sound that matched the ache in her chest.

The wind caught it, carried it through the trees. A wild, wordless melody that didn’t need permission to exist.

Down below, the shouting started again.

“Mira! Mira, come down!”
“This is not funny, Mira!”
“You’re going to fall! Get down now!”

She didn’t answer.

She kept humming.

Her voice wove between the branches, softer now, but steady. A thread in the wind.

“Why can’t she be like him?”
“What’s wrong with her?”

Their voices mixed with the rustling of leaves, swallowed by the sky.

When they gave up — when their footsteps crunched back down the path, leaving her alone again — she finally opened her eyes.

The sun was slipping behind the treetops. Her hands were cold.

She climbed down slowly. Carefully. And when she touched the ground, she turned and hit the tree with her palm. Not out of anger. Just to feel it. Just to make sure something in the world was still solid.

Then she walked home.

She didn’t speak to her parents. Didn’t glance at her brother.

She went straight to her room, pulled the blanket over her head, and hummed one last line before going silent.

And no one came in.

Chapter Text

By ten, Rumi’s life was shaped entirely by rhythm and rigor.

Wake. Train. Sing. Fight. Repeat.

There were no birthdays, no lazy mornings, no after-school snacks or giggles shared over cartoons. Just Celine’s voice — clipped, commanding — and the pounding beat of a metronome she no longer needed to hear to feel. It lived in her bones now. Her steps. Her breath.

Every move had to be sharp, timed, seamless. Every note had to cut like a blade.

Rumi no longer asked for rest. She had learned not to waste breath on it.

Her violet hair was tied tight and high to keep it out of her eyes — not because she liked it that way. Celine had made it clear: there was no room for distractions. No room for softness. Not in her voice, not in her steps, not in her.

She repeated the huntress’s song until it felt more like armor than melody. Until she could hear the words in her sleep, each verse burned into her throat.

We are huntress, voices strong,
Fighting demons with our song.
Fix the world and make it right,
When darkness finally meets the light.

She no longer needed correction. But she never received praise.

And when the day came that Celine took her into the field — a real loop, a real demon — Rumi wanted to ask if she was ready. But she didn’t.

Because she already knew the answer.

They found it in the crumbling edge of a deserted mall, where time hung thick and broken. The demon was quick, low to the ground, its form jagged and twitching like bad memory given shape. Its presence warped the air, static humming under Rumi’s skin. Her throat tightened.

Celine moved like shadow and steel, circling it, watching. “Sing it out. You’re leading.”

Rumi’s heart pounded as she stepped forward, blade at her hip, voice trembling just below the surface. Her fingers curled into fists. She opened her mouth—

—and hesitated.

The demon lunged.

Its claws were faster than she was, too fast. It slashed the side of her arm before she even raised the blade. Pain lanced through her, white and sharp. The song caught in her throat.

She stumbled.

Celine moved in an instant, driving her own blade deep into the thing’s side. It screamed — a sickening, warped sound — before disintegrating into ash.

Silence followed. But not stillness.

Rumi stood frozen, gasping, clutching her arm.

Celine turned on her like a storm.

“You hesitated.” Her voice was cold as stone. “You could have died.”

“I—” Rumi started, but the words fell apart.

“You need to be more,” Celine snapped. “More focused. More ruthless. Louder.” She was pacing now, jaw tight. “If you can’t kill when it matters, you won’t save the Honmoon. You’ll fail all of them.”

The name hit like a drumbeat. Rumi didn’t even know what the Honmoon looked like — only that she was meant to protect it. To save it. That was the whole point.

She nodded, breath shaking.

Then Celine froze. Her eyes narrowed.

Rumi followed her gaze — and saw the tear in her sleeve.

Her blood had soaked through the fabric, exposing the pale skin beneath.

And beneath that: the shimmer of her patterns.

Violet lines that glowed faint and pulsed with her heartbeat. Lightning along her forearm — beautiful. Dangerous. Hers.

Celine didn’t speak. She just moved quickly, pulling a thick blanket from her pack and throwing it hard over Rumi’s shoulders.

“Cover it,” she said, flat and tight. “Hide it.”

Her hands weren’t rough, but they weren’t kind. Not once did she meet Rumi’s eyes while the patterns were still showing.

Only when they were hidden again did Celine’s gaze return to her face — sharp, measuring, as if she were a tool that might crack under pressure.

Rumi stared down at her arm, the fabric now dull and heavy against her skin.

She said nothing.

The blanket stayed on through the walk back.

She didn’t sing on the way home. But the melody still echoed in her bones — steady and quiet, the only part of her she was still allowed to keep.

🦋

Mira was eleven, and her fists had already learned the language of defiance.

The gym smelled like sweat and rubber, the walls streaked with chalk dust and echoes of grunts and thuds. In the corner ring, a coach barked orders at older boys, but Mira was alone at the punching bag — the only one small enough to go unnoticed, until she didn’t.

Her long pink hair was twisted into a messy, too-loose bun, strands sticking to her temple as she pounded the bag with practiced fury. Her feet moved sharp and light on the mat. Her knuckles stung, skin split raw across one finger, but she didn’t stop.

Then the music started.

Someone had plugged in their phone to the overhead speaker — a song with a pulsing beat and a melody that dropped like a dare. Mira didn’t know the name. Didn’t care.

Her body responded before she thought. She shifted her stance, loose now, fluid. Punch. Pivot. Elbow. Duck. She moved with the rhythm, like the song wasn’t just background — it was the thing, guiding her. She wasn’t following drills anymore. She was making something.

And she felt it.

Natural.

Right.

Then came the voice — smug, too-loud, meant to carry.

“Hey, if you’re here to dance, ballerina class is down the street.”

A few of the older boys snickered. Mira froze mid-strike, panting. The boy was taller, maybe thirteen, already with the heavy frame of someone who thought strength was measured in bulk. He leaned against a bench, smirking at her like she was a punchline.

Her face burned.

She turned slowly, eyes hard. “Want to come say that closer?” she said, voice flat.

“Ooooh,” someone murmured. “Feisty.”

The boy laughed. “Little girls don’t belong in a real gym.”

“Then come show me what does,” she snapped. “Unless you’re scared of getting beat by a ballerina.”

That did it.

He stepped into the open space. Coaches weren’t watching. Or maybe they were, and just didn’t care. Either way, Mira stood her ground.

The first hit came fast — a sharp jab that caught her in the shoulder, knocking her off-balance. He was stronger, heavier. She didn’t care. She gritted her teeth and came back swinging.

She didn’t win.

Not by the usual rules. By the end, her lip was split, her ribs aching, and her arms bruised from deflecting blows. But she hadn’t dropped. Hadn’t cried. And she got him good in the nose — enough to make it bleed.

He stopped laughing after that.

When she got home, her mother gasped at the sight of her. Her father shouted, asking what the hell happened, why she couldn’t just act normal for once.

Her brother stayed silent — didn’t defend her. Just turned back to his homework.

Mira didn’t answer any of them.

She went upstairs, washed the blood from her face, and lay down on her bed, limbs sore and buzzing. She didn’t think about the fight.

She thought about the music.

About how her body had moved without thinking, how every hit felt like it belonged to the rhythm.

She thought: I didn’t do it wrong.

She thought: Maybe it’s mine.

And even though her cheek was swollen and her knuckles throbbed, she smiled.

🦋

Zoey was ten, and her thoughts moved faster than her mouth — which was already faster than most people could follow.

Words tumbled out of her before she could stop them, sometimes mid-thought, mid-question, mid-song. She moved constantly: feet tapping, hands drumming on the table, head bobbing to a beat only she could hear.

She didn’t mean to interrupt people — she just had so much to say and it all wanted out right now.

Her room was chaos, but beautiful chaos: half the walls covered in drawings and cutouts of Korean girl groups, sticky notes with phrases in both English and Korean, bubble-letter lyrics, doodles of microphones and stage lights. The floor was a minefield of notebooks, pens, crumpled pages, and snack wrappers. She never stopped creating, but almost never finished anything.

Outside her door, her parents were shouting again.

Her mother’s voice in clipped, furious Korean. Her father shouting back in sharp, defensive English.

“She’s confused! You’re turning her into—”

“I’m giving her culture, not just TV and sugar cereal!”

“She doesn’t need—!”

Zoey tried to focus on the page in front of her — a song she’d started yesterday in mixed lines, flipping between languages with no rules, just flow. But the shouting rose louder, and her pen scratched harder until the ink bled through.

She couldn’t sit still. Her knee bounced. Her fingers tapped out a rhythm on the desk. And then—
BAM —she launched to her feet, rushed to the radio on her shelf, and smacked the ON button like it might save her.

Music crackled through the static.

It was a rap track — fast and fierce and alive. The beat dropped like a heartbeat in double-time, the lyrics sharp and staccato.

Zoey’s whole body snapped into sync.

She didn’t even know she knew the lyrics, but her mouth was moving in time before her brain caught up. Spitting bars, fast, breathless, word after word slamming out like she’d swallowed the song whole and was letting it burst free.

And it was perfect.

For once, her racing thoughts had something to match them. For once, she didn’t have to slow down.

She just had to breathe — differently. In rhythm.

And it calmed her.

Not made-her-quiet calm, not sit-still calm — but centered. The kind of calm that felt like flying, like her body and brain weren’t fighting anymore but dancing with each other.

When the track ended, she stood there panting, grinning like someone had just handed her the answer to a question she hadn’t known how to ask.

Outside, the shouting was still going.

Her mom hated when she spoke English too casually. Her dad got cold and quiet when she answered in Korean. She always said the wrong thing to one of them.

But the music didn’t care what language she used. It just asked her to keep up.

So she grabbed her notebook, flipped to a blank page, and began writing something new — a verse that bent language into rhythm, made space for both halves of her.

She didn’t want to choose.

She wanted to keep moving. Keep talking. Keep singing — loud, fast, wild.

Chapter Text

Rumi was thirteen when she first summoned her weapon.

The song poured from her throat like instinct — clear, powerful, not a note out of place. The hanmoon pulsed in response, glowing in sweeping, blue patterns only she could see. The light bent around her, tugged at something buried deep in her bones.

And then — it formed.

Not kunai, not the sleek little blades her mother once wielded so precisely.

A sword.

Full length. Heavy. Alive with sound and pressure. Hers.

She looked up, breathless, waiting — just for a second — to see something on Celine’s face.

There was something. Brief. A tight, guarded flicker in the eyes. Almost pride.

Then it vanished.

“Not kunai,” Celine said coldly. “A sword is harder to hide. Less elegant.”

Rumi blinked. “But I—”

“No,” Celine cut in. “You’ll work with it. You’ll adapt.”

From that day on, Rumi was sent on solo missions. Celine said she was ready. Said if she was strong enough to summon her weapon, she was strong enough to handle herself.

She did. She could. She fought and she won — again and again. Demons fell to her blade. Patterns lit the sky when she sang. But the truth was: she bled. Often.

Wounds reopened faster than they healed. Her hands shook when she wrapped them in gauze alone in the bathroom at 3 a.m., scrubbing away dried blood with cold water, leaving the sink rust-colored.

She never asked for help. She didn’t think she could.

Celine never offered.

Sleep slipped through her fingers like sand. Some nights, she just stared at the ceiling, fingers tracing the same invisible lines in the air. She tried humming the old song under her breath — the one they used to sing together when she was small.

But now it was just practice.

Choreography.

Each movement timed to breath, each note matched to a strike. Faster. Sharper. Louder. Again. Again.

Even when she wasn’t in the field, she was training. Celine had layered it over everything — vocal drills, movement coordination, weapon control. If she slowed, she was corrected. If she stumbled, she was told to go again. The music wasn’t hers anymore. It was a weapon. Like her.

Rumi never asked for a break. She didn’t know how. Her voice never cracked, so Celine didn’t stop.

And the missions kept coming.

She came home bruised. Burned. Once, with a bone fractured clean through. Another time, barely standing after nearly bleeding out beneath the Honmoon sky.

She bandaged herself, grit her teeth, stood up again.

But sometimes, she stared too long at the scars lining her arms — not all from demons.

Some were from when she was younger. When she’d tried, in secret, to carve the patterns off her skin. She’d taken a blade to them, desperate to erase what made her different. But the Honmoon didn’t forgive. Her patterns only glowed brighter when touched with blood.

Celine had seen the scars.

She never said a word.

Now sixteen, Rumi no longer wondered when it would stop.

The routine was a cage: train, sing, fight, bleed, repeat. Sleep only came when her body collapsed — and even then, the dreams were jagged.

The worst part wasn’t the exhaustion, or the pain, or even the silence.

It was the hollowness.

The space inside her where something should have been — but never had the time to grow.

She didn’t feel like a girl anymore. Just a tool, sharpened and raised, set down without care.

A song without a voice.

A sword without a sheath.

And some nights, as she stood at the cracked window of her room, watching the hanmoon lines shimmer in the dark, she whispered words not even she could hear.

Just to feel something.

Anything.

🦋

Zoey was sixteen the summer her mother dragged her back to Korea.

Dragged, because that’s how it felt — even if she didn’t protest. Her mother and father had been fighting again, this time with more venom than usual. Weeks before the flight, the arguments became daily, bouncing like grenades through the house.

“Why always Korea? She lives here!”
“She has blood, she has roots!”
“She’s not some doll to parade around in hanbok and pretend she understands your—”
“She understands more than you ever tried to! At least she won’t grow up confused!”

Zoey had enough.

One morning, mid-fight, she slammed her cereal spoon down and said, “I want to go.”

Her parents froze.

“I like Korea. I like the bathhouses, and I don’t stand out as much there. It’s hot, and it smells like herbs, and everyone yells at the same volume I talk in — so just—enough, okay?”

That shut them up. For a while.

Her father grumbled at the airport. Her mother said nothing, just dragged her suitcase faster than necessary. And by the time they landed in Seoul, the peace had already cracked.

It was always the same.

The second they arrived, her mother became something else — harder, sharper. Everything Zoey did was wrong. Every step, too loud. Every word, too fast. Every outfit, too much skin.

“You can’t wear that in public.”
“You zip around like a hummingbird. Try walking like a young lady.”
“You should keep your voice down. You sound like a foreigner.”

Zoey zipped louder just to spite her.

Her tank top was fine. The shorts were practical. Her hair was a little frizzy — so what? The heat was a different kind of heavy here, and it always made her body feel like a live wire. Static and buzzing. And if she talked too fast, it was because her brain moved too fast.

But no matter what she did, her mother hovered. Grumbled. Nitpicked.

And Zoey had had enough of that, too.

“엄마,” she said sharply one afternoon, switching to Korean without thinking. “You don’t have to babysit me the whole damn time.”

Her mother’s eyes widened slightly. “Language, Zoey—”

“No. Listen. I like it here. I like it. But not like this. I want to go explore. Alone. I’m sixteen, not six.”

Her mother looked ready to argue, but Zoey was already pulling on her hoodie — the oversized one with the weird cartoon that didn’t match either culture — and stuffing her earbuds in her pocket.

“There’s this mountain nearby, right?” she added. “With the huge-ass tree at the top?”

“Zoey—”

“I saw it on the way here. Looked like it had a house up there or something. I’m gonna go check it out.”

She grabbed her water bottle, slung a small bag over her shoulder, and was halfway out the door before her mom could say no.

She didn’t want permission.
She wanted space.
And maybe… something more.

The wind on the mountains was different. Cleaner. Sharper. And the climb would be hard, sure — but Zoey already felt better, just thinking about being somewhere her voice didn’t echo wrong. Somewhere higher.

Maybe that house up there was abandoned. Maybe it wasn’t.
Maybe she’d find quiet.
Or something waiting.

Either way, it would be her choice.

🦋

Mira’s fist connected with her brother’s nose before she even registered moving.

He’d called her a wild animal again. Said it with that flat, smug voice he always used when the grown-ups weren’t watching. Said it with a smirk like he wanted her to explode — like he needed it to prove his point.

“You can’t even go one day without turning feral,” he muttered, wiping the trickle of blood with the back of his hand. “You’re like a stray dog in a skirt.”

And Mira snapped.

Her knuckles ached, but she didn’t regret it. Not for a second.

Her parents did.

In the hotel room, their voices climbed over each other.

“She attacked him!”

“He provoked her!”

“Does it matter? She always does this!”

“Why can’t you be more like other girls?”

“Why can’t you be normal?“

Mira stood there, breathing hard, a storm under her skin. Her brother cradled his nose, quiet, not crying — not defending her either. Just sitting there, like the victim he knew they’d see him as.

They always blamed her. Too loud. Too wild. Too much.

There was no room for her in their version of the world.

Something in her chest cracked, and it wasn’t sadness.

It was exhaustion.

So Mira turned, grabbed her hoodie, and left without a word.

The streets of Seoul were alive and crawling — tourists, blaring lights, sharp noises, the air thick with food, concrete heat, and people pressing in on all sides. It made her skin crawl. She hated the city. The way it closed in. The way it looked at her, like it could see the wrongness in her walk, her eyes, her stance.

Her legs moved before her thoughts caught up. Running, walking, it blurred into one long rhythm. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, probably her parents, but she didn’t check.

She needed air. Space. Sky.

That’s when she saw it.

A mountain in the distance, peeking just past the edges of the city. Trees curled up its sides, dense and dark, but it was the shape at the very top that locked her breath in her throat.

A tree.

A massive one. Crown blown wide like it was reaching for the stars themselves. And—was that a house? Nestled into the branches or the cliff beside it? It was hard to tell through the haze, but it didn’t matter.

It called to her.

The same way rooftops did. Branches. Poles. Anywhere she could climb, anything she could be above.

She didn’t know why. She just knew she had to get there.

By the time the city was behind her and the mountain in reach, her shoes were dusty and her legs burned.

But she didn’t slow.

She couldn’t.

She needed out of that hotel, that room, that fight, those stares. She needed out of being blamed for how she was. Her fists were too quick. Her voice too sharp. Her laughter too loud. Her love too fierce.

They called it a problem.

She just called it herself.

And the mountain — it didn’t look at her like that.

It stood, silent and patient, like it was waiting.

She didn’t look back.

She climbed.

And for the first time in days, her lungs filled all the way.

🦋

Rumi lay sprawled along the thick limb of her favorite tree, the ancient branches rising beside her mother’s grave like silent sentinels. The night was quiet but for the soft rustling of leaves and the distant hum of the city fading into the darkness beyond. Her violet braid, loosened and undone from hours of restless tossing, tumbled over the rough bark, brushing against her cheek with a cool, comforting touch.

She stared up at the stars through the latticework of branches, her breath slow and uneven, heart heavy with the weight of another hollow day. Sleep slipped just beyond her reach like a ghost—always promised but never delivered. The exhaustion was bone-deep, but still, her mind buzzed and spun.

Then she heard it.

Footsteps. Not the careful, calculated tread of demons or hunters, but human. Alive. Imperfect.

Crunch. Crunch. Heavy and purposeful, a weighty rhythm on dry leaves and broken twigs.

Then lighter steps, skipping, playful, untamed, weaving through the underbrush with quicksilver energy.

Voices followed—two distinct tones, contrasting yet harmonizing like a strange melody born of youth and defiance. One voice rapped—a rapid-fire jumble of syllables, halting and stuttering as the other corrected the rhythm with laughter and teasing.

Curiosity prickled through Rumi’s skin. Slowly, with a careful tilt, she lifted her head, eyes narrowing through the dark to make out the figures below.

Two girls stood at the base of the tree, framed by moonlight and shadow.

The first was a blaze of restless energy—her hair a cascade of pink tied into a messy bun, strands escaping like sparks. She bounced on the balls of her feet, fists clenched and unclenched as if ready to strike or dance at any moment, eyes bright and fierce, daring the night itself to challenge her.

Beside her, smaller but no less electric, was a girl with wide eyes that flickered with quicksilver thoughts. Her posture was less confrontational but no less alert, lips moving silently as if mouthing words no one else could hear. She held herself as though she belonged to two worlds at once—her clothing a patchwork of East and West, colors clashing yet somehow blending, a puzzle piece that refused to fit.

Rumi’s breath caught, a sudden pull tugging at the roots of her chest. Recognition—unnamed and unexplained—threaded through her veins.

Her fingers curled around the branch. But just as she prepared to shift, the old wood beneath her groaned.

The branch cracked.

The world tipped.

She fell.

Instinct flared through her—limbs twisting, muscles coiling with the grace of countless fights, countless falls.

Her landing was soft but sure—knees bent, arms outstretched, feet kissing the earth like a cat’s.

The two girls below gasped—one’s eyes wide with surprise, the other’s mouth curved into a wild, delighted smile.

Three strangers. Three souls pulled by fate and fracture, now poised on the edge of collision.

🦋

The sharp scent of pine and damp earth filled the air as Mira reached the base of the mountain trail. The city’s chaos was already a fading memory—the blaring horns, crowded streets, the suffocating walls of the hotel—all replaced by the sprawling wilderness that stretched upward, raw and untamed.

Her breath came quick but steady, legs aching from the climb she hadn’t even started yet. She paused, eyes scanning the path ahead. That’s when she noticed her — a girl standing just a few feet away, seemingly still, yet humming softly under her breath, lips moving in a rapid dance no one else could hear.

Their eyes locked instantly, and a sudden current surged between them — intangible, electric, a silent melody threading through the space like a whispered secret. Both girls felt it: a strange openness, like a door unlatching somewhere deep inside.

Neither needed to speak.

The tension in Mira’s shoulders eased; the wild fire simmering beneath her skin softened, folding into a gentler warmth. Zoey’s restless energy slowed, her usually darting eyes lingering longer, less guarded, more curious.

It was as if they’d been walking parallel paths without knowing — and now their roads converged.

“Going up?” Mira’s voice was low but sure, nodding toward the steep dirt trail winding up through thick clusters of oak and maple.

Zoey’s smile was shy but genuine, an unspoken understanding passing between them. “Yeah. To the tree.”

Together, they stepped onto the path, the dry leaves crunching beneath their boots, the mountain seeming to breathe with them. Their voices found rhythm—words tumbling out, laughter threading through the quiet woods, a shared cadence that felt like the beginning of something rare and real.

As they climbed, Mira’s edges softened further — the fierce, jagged lines blurring into something warmer. Zoey, too, shed some of her tension; the constant hum inside her slowed to a steady beat, her steps measured, sure.

The trees parted suddenly, and there it was: the ancient giant, its thick, gnarled branches sprawling wide against the sky like open arms. The tree stood sentinel over the mountain’s summit, its bark cracked and worn by time, roots plunging deep into the rocky soil.

And there — draped over one massive branch — hung the violet braid.

A quiet stillness settled, broken only by the rustling leaves.

Then, eyes appeared above the braid—deep violet, distant and empty, like a hollow shell.

The gaze shifted suddenly, focusing sharply on Mira and Zoey with an intensity that sent a shiver down their spines.

Before either could react, the figure shifted — and then slipped.

Time slowed.

The world seemed to hold its breath.

She fell.

But it wasn’t a clumsy plummet.

Midair, the figure twisted with fluid precision, a dance of limbs that defied gravity—arms slicing through the air like blades, legs bending and extending with balletic grace. Her violet braid trailed like a comet’s tail, catching moonlight in silken waves.

The forest floor rushed up, leaves swirling in a sudden gust stirred by her descent.

She landed softly—barely a sound—knees bent to absorb the impact, arms outstretched in perfect balance. Her feet touched down with the quiet elegance of a cat, steady and sure, not a hint of falter.

For a heartbeat, everything was still.

Then Mira and Zoey gasped, caught between awe and disbelief, as the girl on the ground lifted her head, eyes blazing with a fierce light that seemed to burn away the shadows within.

Three strangers now stood beneath the ancient tree — their paths intertwined by something unspoken and powerful.

And the mountain held its breath, waiting.

Chapter Text

Zoey’s heart thudded against her ribs, wild and uneven. Her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and throat, eyes fixed on the girl who had just landed like something out of a dream—or a nightmare, she couldn’t tell which.

The mountain wind curled between the trees, stirring the leaves like whispers. For a moment, the world had narrowed: just her, Mira, and the violet-eyed stranger who had fallen from the sky with impossible grace.

She didn’t know her name yet, but that didn’t matter.

What mattered was the feeling—immediate, overwhelming.
A pull.
Not like gravity, not exactly.
Something older. Quieter. Deeper.

Zoey had always moved too fast. Talked too fast. Felt too much. Her thoughts zipped like live wires, impossible to catch. But now—
Now everything inside her stilled.
Like music fading into silence.

The girl before her was carved from midnight: pale skin, dark braid, eyes that shimmered with a kind of exhaustion Zoey didn’t understand but instantly recognized.

She wanted to speak, to say something funny, clever, disarming.
But her mouth didn’t move.
Her heart just thudded louder.

🦋

Mira took half a step back, not from fear, but from awe.
Her pulse pounded at the base of her throat, not in panic—but recognition.
Of what, she wasn’t sure.

The girl had fallen like wind-carved stone, like she belonged to this mountain. Like she was this mountain.

Mira had never been good at stillness. It made her itch. She always had to move—run, punch, laugh, climb.
But now she stood frozen, staring at the stranger with the long braid and tired, powerful eyes, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t want to run.

She wanted to know.
Not the way you ask someone their name and favorite color and pretend that means you understand them.
No—deeper than that.

This girl had scars. She could see them—on her arms, in her posture, in the heavy set of her shoulders. The kind of scars that didn’t come from one bad fall, but from a hundred hard days stitched together with silence.

Mira’s chest ached. Not with sadness.
With recognition.

They had all been burned by something.
And still—they stood.

She didn’t know what this was. This moment. This meeting.
But the pull was undeniable. Like fate had dropped a thread in each of their hands, and now it tugged them toward the same knot.

🦋

Rumi straightened slowly, her legs steady beneath her, though her heart fluttered in her chest like something trying to escape. She didn’t know why she had fallen—not really. She rarely slipped or didn’t notice a weak branch. Her balance was honed, exact. A mistake like that would have once earned a scolding.

But it hadn’t felt like a mistake.

The moment she’d seen them—two strangers in the clearing below—her muscles had gone loose, like the tension she’d carried for so long had given up, just for a second.

Now she stood before them, exposed in a way that felt deeper than skin.

The two girls stared back, wide-eyed and quiet, but there was no fear in them. No disgust.

Just… a mirror.

Rumi didn’t trust many things—her training, her blade, the sound of her own voice when she sang. But this feeling—the one blooming slow and strange inside her chest—felt dangerous. Unknown.
Real.

She should have run. Should have vanished into the trees. That was the rule: don’t connect. Don’t break formation. Don’t be seen.

But she didn’t move.
Couldn’t.

Because she knew.
Somehow, without explanation.

These girls were like her.
Not in body. Not in background.

But in fracture.
And force.

She looked at the tall one—the one with the electric laugh and wounded knuckles—and saw fire, untamed and burning.
Then to the smaller one, the one with wild words and curious eyes—she was rhythm and light, a heartbeat in motion.

Together, they stood like notes of a song she hadn’t known she’d been waiting to hear.

The mountain breathed.
The wind shifted.
And none of them said a word.

But the pull between them grew heavier.
Not pulling them apart.
Pulling them in.

Toward each other.
Toward the tree.
Toward whatever was waiting.

🦋

They stood in the clearing, the three of them, caught in that rare kind of silence that doesn’t need to be broken. A hush that wasn’t empty — but full. Of breath, of curiosity, of something just beginning to bloom.

Then Zoey blinked, as if remembering her voice had volume.

“Okay, but—that fall,” Zoey burst out, practically vibrating with leftover adrenaline. Her words came fast, tripping over each other. “Like, you flipped midair. No hesitation, no panic. I swear it was like watching some ancient warrior-princess hybrid of Legolas and Lara Croft—with better posture. How does someone even learn to do that? Are you trained? Are you enchanted? Is that, like, some secret martial art—?”

She paused, chest heaving slightly from talking so fast. Her eyes flicked to the other two girls.

Then her mouth clicked shut.

Her hands dropped to her sides.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I get—talky. Sometimes I don’t know when to stop.”

For a moment, silence hovered again — not sharp, just… still.

Rumi tilted her head slightly, like a curious animal catching an odd sound. The movement was slow, careful. Her violet braid shifted slightly as she watched Zoey with unreadable eyes. She didn’t speak.

Then Mira stepped forward.

Confident. Steady. Her gaze never wavered.

“You’re not the only one who doesn’t know when to stop,” she said, half-smirking. “But you’re funny. It’s refreshing.”

She stuck out a hand, casual, no-nonsense. “I’m Mira.”

Her voice had a rasp to it, like it had been sharpened on arguments and rooftop winds. She was all hard edges and compact power, sleeves pushed up, dirt smudged along the side of her cheek like it belonged there.

“I needed out,” she added, less performative now. “City was too loud. People were louder. Saw the tree from the streetcar, decided to climb the mountain. Didn’t think I’d meet anyone else doing the same.”

She glanced at Rumi.

“And definitely didn’t think I’d see someone fall out of the tree like that.”

The corner of Rumi’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

“Rumi,” she said quietly.

No last name. No embellishment. Her voice was low, barely above a whisper, and something about the way she said it made Zoey and Mira instinctively lower their own volume. As if anything louder would shatter her.

Zoey looked at her properly now.

Up close, Rumi looked… worn. Not bruised, not broken — but faded at the edges. Like someone who had been walking through rainstorms no one else could see. There weren’t many scars — but the ones she did have stood out. A thin one trailing along the bridge of her thumb. A slightly crooked mark near her collarbone. And above her right eye, a fresh cut, expertly bandaged — but clearly self-patched, the work precise but impersonal. Her posture was slightly hunched, arms drawn close like she was folding inward.

Zoey caught herself staring and quickly looked away.

That was when the voice came.

“Rumi.”

It was soft.

Too soft.

Not affectionate — but careful. Almost rehearsed.

Rumi flinched.

Just barely — a subtle contraction of her shoulders, a stiffness in her jaw. Her eyes dropped to the ground like they’d been yanked there. She didn’t respond.

“Rumi!”

Louder now. Clear. Carried easily through the trees.

Zoey blinked. “Is that—?”

Rumi answered without looking up. “My aunt. Celine.”

There was something odd in the way she said it. Not fear, exactly — but resignation. Like a small rope pulling taut around her spine. Mira watched Rumi’s face closely and said nothing.

Then, from the edge of the clearing, the trees parted.

And she arrived.

Celine.

She stepped out of the shadows like she belonged to them — tall, graceful, her long coat rustling faintly as she moved, woven in deep blacks and twilight purples, subtle Honmoon script embroidered along the hem and cuffs. She looked like someone carved from stillness. Composed, unreadable, and… warm. At least, on the surface.

Her face opened into a gentle smile the moment she saw Zoey and Mira. She didn’t look at Rumi at all.

“Hello,” she said kindly. “I hope Rumi didn’t startle you. She has a habit of dropping in, unannounced.”

Her voice — that voice — was honeyed steel. Smooth, practiced, the kind people instinctively trusted. The kind that made you question whether the sharpness you thought you heard was real.

Zoey felt her nerves settle. Mira, not so much.

“She literally fell out of a tree,” Zoey said, still breathless. “But no, it was awesome. Seriously.”

“I’m Celine,” the woman said with a small nod. “Rumi’s guardian. I make sure she doesn’t fall off too many things.”

She chuckled lightly. Mira didn’t laugh, but Zoey gave a polite grin.

The woman’s eyes flicked to the dimming sky, then back to them with a motherly concern that felt too smooth to be entirely real.

“It’s late,” she said. “Do your parents know where you are?”

“I’m good,” Mira replied, cool and unbothered.

Zoey fished for her phone and made a face. “Ugh. No reception. I swear I had bars near the bottom of the trail…”

Celine smiled. “The mountain’s old. Sometimes it doesn’t like signals. But there’s a landline in the house, if you need it. You’re welcome to call from there. And eat, if you’re hungry.”

Zoey’s eyes widened. “You live in that house?”

Mira’s lips parted. “We saw it. From the city. Thought it was some kind of hidden temple or something.”

“It’s a bit of both,” Celine said, her tone amused but gentle. “Built into the cliff, wrapped around the base of the tree. The... spirits run strong here. It keeps the house… anchored.”

She paused. Her gaze passed over them again, lingering on their clothes, their expressions, the way they stood together. A flicker of calculation passed through her eyes — gone before it could settle.

“If your parents allow it, you’re welcome to stay the night. Just for tonight.”

Zoey lit up. “I’ll call and ask! I mean—I’m pretty sure she’ll say yes. Probably. Unless she freaks out because I vanished into the woods with zero warning. But I’ll ask!”

She looked to Mira.

“I’ll stay,” Mira said, simple as that. “If the offer’s real.”

“It is,” Celine said, with a smile that could make glaciers melt.

She finally — finally — turned her eyes to Rumi.

But she didn’t say her name.

Just placed a hand lightly on the girl’s shoulder. Rumi didn’t move, didn’t look up. Her mouth was a tight line. Her shoulders barely lifted with breath.

“Come along,” Celine said, soft. “You’ll want to show them the way.”

Rumi nodded once. Silently. Like a switch had been thrown.

The girls followed her toward the slope — and the tree above them creaked gently in the evening wind, its branches heavy with something unsaid.

🦋

The house was old, but not in a decayed way—more like something that had stood too long to be questioned. Its wood had darkened with time, its windows half-fogged with age and moonlight, and the porch lights cast a soft gold wash across the stone steps. The forest leaned close behind it, as if listening.

Zoey turned toward it with wide eyes, already brimming with curiosity.

Celine, standing beside them now, motioned toward the entrance. “You’ll find the landline just inside the front room, on the desk by the window. Reception’s spotty in the mountains. That line still works when everything else doesn’t.”

Zoey grinned, her usual spark returning. “Awesome. I’ll call my mom before she files a missing person report.”

She turned to Mira. “You coming with me? Backup, in case I get electrocuted by a rotary phone or something?”

Mira raised a brow, but her lips tugged up in a half-smile. “Sure. Sounds like an adventure.”

The two girls stepped through the threshold, their voices drifting faintly back through the open door.

Rumi stayed still. Her gaze never left the ground, shoulders tense beneath the soft fall of her hair.

Celine didn’t speak right away. She let the silence stretch, like a wire pulling taut between them.

Then, in that calm, honeyed tone that always made Rumi feel colder rather than warmer, she said, “You felt it, didn’t you?”

Rumi’s hands clenched behind her back. Her fingers itched to move—to do something, anything—but she didn’t lift her head.

“I…” Her voice was barely audible. “I don’t know if they’re the right ones.”

It was a lie.

She had felt it. That impossible pull when she first saw them. Not just attraction or recognition—but resonance. Like something in her bones had sighed and said: finally.

But the fear in her chest was louder.

'I don’t want to watch them die.'

The thought surfaced unbidden.

'I don’t want to watch them bleed.'

She could already see it—flashes behind her eyes of open wounds, trembling hands, gasping lungs. She’d seen it before. She knew what happened when people weren’t fast enough. When they didn’t know what the Honmoon required. When they couldn’t adapt quickly enough to the burn of the patterns or the split-second timing between a song and a slash.

'I don’t want to feel the bond', she thought, throat tightening, 'just to be alone again when it doesn’t work out.'

She didn’t look up when Celine stepped closer, silent as smoke.

Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “They are the right ones. I felt it. As surely as you did.”

She circled to Rumi’s side, not looking directly at her. “The Honmoon does not make mistakes. It doesn’t ask. It chooses.”

Rumi said nothing.

Celine’s expression softened—on the surface. Her voice became something gentle enough to fool a stranger. “They may not look like much now. But they will learn. Train. Harden.”

Then, colder: “And until then, they are yours to protect.”

Rumi’s shoulders drew in, instinctively. The words landed not like purpose, but weight.

Celine turned fully to her then, and though her eyes were warm, Rumi knew better.

“You’re half demon, Rumi. That blood of yours—it makes you more. It makes you durable.” The smile that followed was all lips and no kindness. “You’ll take what they can’t. You’ll bleed when they hesitate. And if that’s not enough—”

Her voice dipped, silken and final.

“Then you’ll die for them.”

Rumi’s breath hitched. Her hands trembled slightly behind her back.

“Because that is what you were made to do,” Celine continued. “You are not like them. You are not fragile.”

She reached out, brushed a lock of hair behind Rumi’s ear, almost motherly. “And if you’re not good enough yet, you’ll become so. You have no other choice.”

The Honmoon pulsed faintly beneath Rumi’s skin, not in agreement, but in recognition.

The burden. The truth.

Always more. Always alone.

A beat passed.

Then Celine’s tone shifted again—light, almost cheerful. A performance.

“Well,” she said, her hands smoothing down the front of her immaculate coat. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

She glanced at Rumi one last time.

“Fix your posture,” she added, that soft steel back in her voice. “And smile more. You’re their anchor now. You don’t get to look like you’re sinking.”

And with that, she turned, gliding toward the house like she hadn’t just shattered someone.

Rumi stayed still for one more second.

Then straightened.

Then smiled—just enough to pass.

Chapter Text

The old landline phone felt clunky and foreign in Zoey’s hand, its spiral cord coiled like a snake and heavy with age. The carved wooden desk it sat on was old but polished, the lacquer glinting in the warm amber of lantern light. From deeper in the house, she could hear the murmur of Celine and Mira talking, footsteps soft against the worn floors. The house breathed like something living—quiet, but far from empty.

She swallowed and pressed the receiver to her ear.

It rang once.

Twice.

“Zoey?! Where have you been?”

Her mother’s voice hit like a slap: sharp with worry, fraying at the edges.

Zoey flinched. “Mom—I told you I was going to that big tree in the mountain forest, remember? I swear I told you.”

“You told me you were thinking about it, not that you were actually going. Then your phone goes completely dead all day? You didn’t answer a single message. Not even a read receipt.”

“There’s no signal out here,” Zoey said quickly, guilt wrapping around her like cold water. “I didn’t know it would be this bad. Like, total dead zone.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I know, I just—okay, look. I ended up finding this girl—well, meeting her. Mira. She was climbing too, and we sort of… ran into each other. And then we both met someone else. Her name’s Rumi. She lives up here. Kind of… in the mountains.”

“In the mountains?” her mother repeated, incredulous. “Zoey, what are you even saying?”

“It’s not a shack or anything, Mom. It’s this big old house. Looks like it fell out of a novel. Stone walls, electricity, running water, ivy, the works. Kinda spooky, but really beautiful. She lives here with her aunt, who’s been super welcoming. I mean—kind of elegant and terrifying, but also polite. Like, polite in a ‘this woman probably owns swords’ kind of way.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re at a stranger’s house in the middle of the mountains. With two girls I’ve never heard of, a women who might own swords and you didn’t tell anyone?”

“I didn’t plan this,” Zoey protested. “I wasn’t going to spend the night. But it got dark way faster than I expected, and the path’s not safe without light. It’d take hours to get down. And there are no cars out here. Nothing. You wouldn’t want me hiking back alone.”

“No. I wouldn’t,” her mother snapped. “I also wouldn’t want you staying in some stranger’s house where I don’t know who these people are or what’s going on.”

Zoey hesitated, heart racing. “Mira’s here with me. We both ended up at the house together. She’s really nice, Mom. Smart. Kind of mysterious. Has cool boots.”

There was a pause, then her mother’s voice again, more clipped: “Let me talk to her.”

Zoey peeked out from the hallway and saw Mira standing near the entry, studying a painting with her arms loosely folded.

“Mira?” Zoey called. “Could you—uh—talk to my mom for a sec?”

Mira looked over, brows rising slightly. “Sure?”

She walked over and took the receiver with a cautious nod. “Hello?” she said. “Yes. I met your daughter earlier today on the trail. We were both heading to the old tree… Yes. We didn’t know each other before… No, I’m not from here, I was just hiking, same as her… Yes, we’re both okay.”

She spoke calmly, but her mouth tightened slightly around the edges of each answer, clearly sensing the rising tension on the other end.

Zoey squirmed beside her, hugging her arms.

Mira handed the phone back gently. “She’s worried.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Zoey muttered.

Her mother’s voice came again, still firm: “Zoey, you cannot just run off with strangers. This is exactly the kind of situation I always warn you about.”

“I didn’t run off! I just—” Zoey let out a breath and dropped her head against the wood-paneled wall. “Please, Mom. Just this once. I know I messed up, but I didn’t do anything reckless. Celine even offered to talk to you if it would help.”

As if summoned, soft footsteps approached.

Celine appeared in the archway, her posture elegant, arms relaxed at her sides. The golden light haloed around her, softening her features while sharpening her presence. She smiled gently.

“Would you like me to speak to her?” she asked.

Zoey hesitated, then nodded and handed her the phone.

Celine brought it to her ear with a practiced grace. “Hello. Yes, this is Celine… Yes. Celine—” she paused, then gave her full name, carefully and clearly.

The reaction was immediate. Zoey could hear her mother’s breath hitch through the receiver, even at a distance.

“You’re—are you the one from the Sunlight Sisters?”

Celine’s smile sharpened ever so slightly. “The very same.”

“I didn’t know you lived out there.”

“I enjoy my privacy,” she said lightly. “But I assure you, the girls are safe. It may not sound like much, but I would never let them go wandering back through the mountains alone in the dark. There are bears in these woods, not to mention the terrain. And cars don’t reach this high. You understand.”

Zoey heard her mother sigh again. Long, drawn-out. Defeated.

“I suppose there’s no other choice,” her mother muttered. “Please tell Zoey I’m not mad. I was just—scared.”

Celine inclined her head, though the gesture was for no one in particular. “Of course.”

She hung up the phone and turned back toward Zoey with the same unflappable grace. “All settled.”

“Thanks,” Zoey said, but there was a quiet weight in her chest that hadn’t been there before. The way her mom’s voice had gone from frustrated to apologetic the moment she recognized Celine’s name—it stung, a little. Like she’d done something shameful without realizing it.

“I think I made her mad,” she murmured.

“She’s just worried,” Celine replied with a placid smile. “It comes from love. You should be grateful for it.”

Zoey nodded, even though her cheeks were flushed.

At that moment, Rumi stepped back into the hallway.

Her presence was quiet, like something too used to the background. She wore a faint smile now—small and technically correct. But Mira, standing near the archway, caught the stiffness in it.

It was the kind of smile someone wore when they’d practiced it in a mirror.

Rumi’s shoulders were a little too tense. Her steps too careful. Her gaze flicked to Celine and then down, never holding eye contact for more than a second.

Mira watched her closely.

She had only known Rumi for less than an hour. But something about the girl felt… off. Like a guitar string tuned just a fraction too high, humming with tension.

But then again, maybe she was wrong.

Maybe.

🦋

The air inside the dining room was warm, the kind of warmth that felt cultivated—designed—like a stage set to lull an audience into thinking everything was soft, everything was safe.

Lanternlight flickered overhead. The chandelier’s crystal pendants caught it like little stars. The old wood of the table gleamed under wax polish, and dinner steamed gently in porcelain bowls.

Roasted roots. Stew thick with wild herbs. Fresh bread from an oven somewhere deep in the house.

Zoey was talking a mile a minute.

“And then you hit that bridge in the Tokyo Dome performance—you know the one, right? The spotlight was behind you, and the whole crowd just—like—exploded. That moment changed my whole brain chemistry.”

Celine sat at the head of the table, the picture of elegance. A practiced smile touched her lips, patient and warm, her gaze unwavering. “That show was something special,” she said, voice a melody in itself.

Zoey practically vibrated. “You wrote ‘Lightcatcher’ after your third tour, right? Did you know it was going to hit so hard or—”

“I knew it was needed,” Celine answered smoothly, cutting a soft piece of bread with practiced grace. “Sometimes music finds its listener before the lyrics are even finished.”

Mira leaned in, more grounded but no less curious. “Was the choreography yours too? I noticed how your hands always moved first. Like you were casting something.”

Celine tilted her head, intrigued. “Very few catch that. Yes. Movement first. Thought after.”

The girls were enraptured. Their laughter filled the room like windchimes caught in a gentle breeze.

And Rumi—
Rumi sat among them like a ghost haunting her own life.

Her spoon moved, but her food never reached her mouth. She pushed roasted roots from one edge of the plate to the other. She nodded when Zoey laughed, blinked when Mira spoke. She wore a smile so fine it could have been etched in glass.

She was host.

She was protector.

She was invisible.

She was not okay.

A dozen rules burned in her mind: don’t fidget. Keep your back straight. Speak only when spoken to. Smile. Be useful. Don’t let them see. Don’t feel too much. Don’t be too much. Don’t—

Her heart lurched suddenly.

There it was.

A ripple. Not through the room. Not through her thoughts.

Through the Honmoon.

Something wrong. Far off, in the city, but sharp. It knifed through her like a jolt of electricity. She flinched, her head snapping toward the door.

No one else noticed. Not at first.

Then Zoey saw her.

“Rumi?” she asked, her fork halfway to her mouth. “What’s—?”

Rumi didn’t answer.

She rose like something lifted by instinct, fast and silent, her chair scraping back. Her eyes burned with a far-off focus. Her body had gone stiff, breath caught in her throat.

“Rumi?” Mira now, her voice gentler. “Is that normal?”

Celine didn’t look surprised. She picked up her napkin, dabbed the corner of her mouth delicately.

“It is for her,” she said simply. “Don’t worry.”

“But—” Mira started.

“I know it is seems… off,” Celine added with soft finality, folding the napkin beside her plate. “But you don’t need to worry. She sometimes does this. She will also bolt in a moment.”

Rumi didn’t hear them. She was already through the archway, feet nearly silent against the stone floor. Gone.

Gone into the dark.

A breathless silence followed her, broken only by the distant creak of the front door swinging closed.

Zoey and Mira sat frozen for a moment, the light from the chandelier above suddenly feeling far too bright.

And then, casually—like brushing a hair from her shoulder—Celine turned to them.

“Do you want to be idols?”

The question hit like a splash of cold water. Both girls blinked, unsure they’d heard her right.

Zoey’s mouth opened. “What?”

Celine smiled, but her eyes didn’t match it. “You admire the Sunlight Sisters. You know the songs. The choreography. The legacy. I’m asking if you want to become something like that. Something… more.”

Mira glanced toward the hallway Rumi had disappeared into, then back at Celine.

“Does she want be something more?” she asked, quiet.

“No,” Celine replied. “Rumi doesn’t want that.”

She looked down at her untouched stew, then back up, serene again.

“Don’t let her worry you. She feels too much and says too little. That’s her nature. Not yours.”

Zoey shifted in her seat, fidgeting with the edge of her napkin. She could still feel the tremor in the air, like something invisible had passed through the room and hadn’t quite left.

Celine’s tone dropped just a fraction, sweet and smooth like honey over steel.

“Eat, girls. There’s still time for you to decide who you want to be.” A lie. The Honmoon already decided. They just didn’t know, yet.

And outside, in the forest, the night stirred.

🦋

Rumi ran.

The wind tore through her hair, tangling it behind her in a dark stream. Her breath came fast but steady, the terrain beneath her feet a blur of moss, roots, and ancient stones. The lines of the Honmoon glowed faintly around her—soft silver threads stretching through the world like veins, like fate itself had been sewn into the earth.

She could see them now, all around her. The threads pulsed, tugging her forward, humming beneath her skin like blood rushing through a stormed heart.

“By moonlight and mercy, the forest will keep,
Where monsters will wander, but children shall sleep…”

She sang it again—quiet, almost voiceless—through her teeth as she ran. A nursery rhyme she couldn’t forget. The same one she sang when she was scared. When she was small. When the dark came close and the walls of the house weren’t strong enough to keep out the things that crept beneath the trees.

She wasn’t small anymore.

But she was still scared.

She sprinted faster.

Trees blurred past in fractured moonlight, their limbs clawing the sky. The scent of ash and rot thickened the closer she got to the city’s edge, where the clean mountain air gave way to something wrong. Something burning. A flicker, then two—like embers floating on wind—and she felt them before she saw them.

Demons.

Three of them. No—four. Crawling at the border between mountain and street, stretching themselves long and unnatural to slip between shadows. Pale mouths. Too many limbs. Eyes like furnace coals, hungrily scanning the outskirts for prey.

They didn’t see her yet.

But they would.

Rumi slid to a halt.

Her feet skidded across gravel as she planted her feet wide and pulled the Hanmoon’s weight into her chest.

Her body sang with tension. Her pulse was thunder in her ears.

She threw out one hand—sharp, practiced, precise—and the silver threads around her coiled into form, solidifying in a shimmer of starlight and steel.

Her sword bloomed into existence with a hiss of air, long and curved, etched in runes that only glowed for those who bled for the moon.

She didn’t hesitate.

She charged.

The first demon turned too late. Her blade cut clean through its shoulder before it had time to scream, pink mist hissing into steam as it evaporated in the air.

Another lunged.

Rumi twisted midair, blade flashing as she brought it down in a perfect arc. She landed in a crouch, breath sharp, and spun into the next strike, dancing through their forms with terrifying grace.

The demons hissed and chattered in languages older than the stone beneath her feet. One raked at her with jagged claws. Another tried to flank. She ducked, slid under it, and slashed upward, cutting it open like wet paper.

She moved faster than thought, each motion stitched to the next like choreography she’d practiced in secret. She knew this. She was this. Born of demon blood, taught by steel and silence.

But even in the fury—
Even in the rhythm—
Her mind was not there.

Zoey. Mira.

Their faces burned behind her eyes.

Zoey’s wild laughter. Mira’s quiet insight. The way they’d both looked at her like she was something they wanted to know, not fear.

They were at the table.

They were in that house.

With her.

With Celine.

And Rumi—
Rumi was out here, fighting monsters with a sword that felt heavier than it should. Her legs burned. Her shoulder screamed from a glancing blow she didn’t dodge in time. Her blood ran warm down her side.

But she couldn’t stop.

They can’t fight this.

They shouldn’t have to.

She pivoted and drove her blade deep into the chest of the last demon, pushing until its screech died out with a choking rattle. Pink sludge splattered across the concrete. The Honmoon pulsed once—then quieted.

Rumi staggered a step back, panting. Her sword flickered out in a thread of silver mist.

The street was still again. Silent.

She turned her face toward the mountain, toward home, the soft orange glow of the house barely visible through the trees in the distance.

She wanted to collapse.

Instead, she wiped the blood from her cheek with the back of her hand and began to walk.

Back to the table.

Back to the girls.

Back to the house where she’d have to keep smiling.

Back to the person she wasn’t allowed to be.

Chapter Text

Celine led them down a long, warmly lit hallway, the house quiet save for the soft creaks beneath their feet. The wooden floorboards felt solid and old, the kind that remembered footsteps from decades ago. Everything gleamed just enough, clean and curated, like it had been waiting for them.

“We have a few guest rooms,” Celine said with an elegant smile, her voice smooth and practiced. “Would you like to share one, or would you prefer separate rooms?”

Mira looked to Zoey, who looked right back at her. No words passed between them, but something did. A flicker of unspoken understanding.

“Share,” Zoey said. Mira nodded in agreement.

“Safety in numbers,” Mira murmured.

Celine’s smile didn’t falter, but it stretched slightly—just a little too still around the eyes.

“Of course. I understand. But you don’t need to worry. Nothing here will harm you.”

She opened a door with a gentle push, revealing a guest room that could have come from a catalog. A queen-sized bed with layered linen sheets and a quilted blanket in warm earth tones sat at the center. A soft armchair nestled in the corner beneath a reading lamp. Books lined part of the walls, a low dresser stood nearby, and everything smelled faintly of lavender and dustless wood.

It was cozy. Stylish. Comfortable.

It also felt… wrong. Not immediately. Not obviously. But like an echo in the walls that didn’t belong to them.

Zoey stepped in, her mouth already halfway open. “Oh my God, this room is huge! And—wow—look at that embroidery. This looks like something out of a boutique hotel! Do you live here full time? Rumi too?”

She spun around, taking it all in, clearly overwhelmed and possibly using the commentary to keep from feeling too out of place.

Celine only chuckled softly. “I’m glad you like it.”

She turned slightly in the doorway, hand resting gently against the frame. “After breakfast tomorrow, if you’re both up for it… I’d love to hear you sing.”

That quieted Zoey for a heartbeat. “Oh! You mean like—seriously?”

“Yes.” Celine’s voice, though kind, didn’t invite refusal. “I’ve been searching for bandmates for Rumi. Someone to help carry on her mother’s legacy. It’s time, I think.”

There was a pause.

Mira, standing by the bed, glanced at her from the side.

“Her mother’s legacy.” Not Rumi’s dream. Not her desire.

Strange wording. Specific, pointed, like something memorized.

Celine added with that same smoothness, “You’re both talented. And I think she could use partners.”

“But… doesn’t she not want to be an idol?” Mira asked carefully.

“She’s young,” Celine answered, stepping backward into the hallway again. “She doesn’t always know what’s best for her. We all need a push sometimes.”

Zoey sat on the bed, bouncing a little. “This is so wild. Like, your house is gorgeous. And you’re you! And we just ended up here by accident! I feel like I’m in a dream.”

Celine paused in the doorway, her smile gentling like softened wax. “Some dreams choose us.”

Then she excused herself with a soft “Sleep well, darlings,” and left them alone in the too-cozy room.

A few minutes later, the stillness cracked.

The front door opened.

They all heard it from upstairs. A sharp click of the handle. A hush. Then a voice—Celine’s—carried up through the floorboards, louder than she had spoken at any point that night.

“Rumi,” she called brightly. “Are you alright? Did you get your mind settled again?”

Zoey blinked and exchanged a glance with Mira.

The tone was… off.

Too loud. Too cheerful. Performed.

But again—they didn’t know them. Maybe this was normal. Maybe this was just how they talked.

Mira didn’t respond. She sat near the window, looking out at the shadows. The mountains. The strange lights lingering beyond the trees.

Zoey was still too starstruck to notice. “She’s really her, isn’t she? Celine of the Sunlight Sisters. I can’t believe I didn’t realize it earlier. I love her solo from ‘Ash and Honey.’ You know the one where she’s in that backless gown with the red lights and the smoke and—ugh, Mira, it’s so good—”

Mira cracked a small smile, though her eyes were distant. “Yeah. It was good.”

Footsteps padded up the stairs below them. Then, a pause.

A soft knock.

Celine opened the door just slightly and peeked inside, arms full of folded blankets and extra pillows—far more than they needed.

“I brought a few spares,” she said, her voice once again the gentle hostess’. “The mountain air can surprise you. I thought it best to be prepared.”

She stepped inside and placed the blankets on the armchair.

“You don’t need to worry,” she said as she fluffed a pillow. “Rumi is home. She’ll be at breakfast with you both tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll be glad for the company.”

Her voice was tender. Her smile glowed.

But Mira caught it again—that flicker behind the words. Something too smooth. Too measured.

They thanked her, of course. What else could they do?

She wished them a good night, stepped out again, and the door shut with a soft click.

Only then, in the quiet that followed, did Zoey’s words come slower.

“You felt it too, right?” she whispered, pulling the covers up. “Like… something’s off?”

Mira nodded, but only barely.

“Yeah,” she said. “But we don’t know them.”

“Right,” Zoey mumbled, curling toward the center of the bed. “Right. Maybe they’re just… like this.”

🦋

The front door creaked open with a slow groan, swallowed by the silence of the sleeping house.

Rumi stepped inside on unsteady feet. Her breathing was shallow, a sharp sting rising with every inhale. Her sweater clung to her side, darkened with blood—her blood—and more than one slice in the fabric showed where claws had found flesh.

She wasn’t limping, not exactly, but her balance shifted wrong. Her legs trembled under her weight as she closed the door behind her and leaned into it for a second, just to breathe. Her sword was gone, vanished in a flicker of fading moonlight. Her hands trembled at her sides, smudged with ash, mud, and something darker.

The buzz of the Honmoon still echoed in her veins—an anxious, vibrating hum like she had swallowed thunder. It always felt like this after a fight. Like she had been pulled in every direction and hadn’t landed yet. Her mind still in the city. Her heart still near the girls upstairs.

She looked down.

Blood was already dripping onto the polished floorboards.

Cursing under her breath, she tugged at the ripped hem of her sleeve to press against one of the deeper cuts. Too late. Red smeared across her fingers.

“Rumi,” Celine’s voice called, sudden and bright, far too loud for the quiet house. “Are you alright? Did you get your mind settled again?”

Rumi flinched. Her back went rigid. Her fingers curled into the fabric at her side, knuckles going white. She didn’t look up. She didn’t speak.

Her breath caught when she heard the quiet, even footsteps descending the stairs behind her.

Celine moved like a ghost, like the house itself made space for her. She came to a stop a few feet away, looking not at Rumi’s face, but at the blood slowly spreading across the floorboards.

Her voice dropped, soft and icy.

“Patch yourself up before more blood gets on the wood. You know how it stains.”

Still, Rumi said nothing. Her jaw was clenched tight enough to ache.

Celine tilted her head slightly. Her tone remained gentle, but the weight behind it pressed hard.

“You’ll be at breakfast at nine sharp. You’ll eat. In front of them. No fussing.”

She circled Rumi slowly, like appraising something barely passable.

“You’ll smile. You’ll make them feel welcome. The Honmoon has chosen. They’re your bandmates now, Rumi.”

A beat of silence. Celine’s voice went quieter still, silk stretched thin over steel.

“You’ll cover up. No patterns. No scars. No shadows. You’ll wear sleeves tomorrow. You’ll hide everything—like I taught you.”

Another step. Closer. Her breath touched Rumi’s cheek.

“And you’ll sing.”

Rumi blinked slowly, staring at the floor, heart hammering in a pace that didn’t belong to her body.

“You will sing, Rumi.”

Still, silence.

“Go,” Celine said finally, dismissive now, already walking away. “You’ve got blood on your chin.”

Rumi turned stiffly, forcing her body toward the back hallway. Each step was heavier than the last. She didn’t dare touch the railing. She didn’t dare look behind her. The Honmoon still pulsed faintly in her veins—an ache, a hum, a warning.

And upstairs, where the girls were waiting in a room too big, too warm, too stylish… she could feel them. Their presence. Their light.

It scared her more than the dark.

🦋

Zoey let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and flopped backward into the bed dramatically, arms outstretched.

“This is insane, right?” she said, staring up at the ceiling. “Like, we’re in Celine’s house. Celine. From the Sunlight Sisters. My actual idol. And she just… brought us here like it’s nothing. Do you know how many times I’ve replayed ‘Hollow Halo’ and tried to learn the dance? I couldn’t even finish it once without kicking a chair.”

Mira smiled faintly, brushing her hair behind her ear as she sat down at the edge of the bed, more reserved. “Yeah. I was surprised too,” she admitted, glancing around the room again. “I mean… I’ve seen her perform on TV, but it’s different, seeing her like this. In real life.”

“Right?” Zoey sat up suddenly, her eyes gleaming. “And she was so nice, too. I thought she’d be… I don’t know, scary in person. Intimidating. But she’s, like, so chill. And elegant. Like, she could be sculpted from moonlight and just casually offer us extra blankets.”

Mira huffed a quiet laugh. “Moonlight, huh?”

Zoey nodded quickly, then looked thoughtful. “I mean… that was kind of a weird way she talked about Rumi, though? Like, saying she wanted to start her mother’s legacy with a band. Didn’t sound like Rumi wanted that.”

Mira’s smile faded slightly, thoughtful. “Yeah… I caught that too. But maybe they’re just… like that? I don’t know.”

She didn’t say what she was really thinking. That Celine had barely looked at Rumi. That something about her tone—so different from the warmth she showed them—was strange. But Mira didn’t have a reference for this sort of thing. Her parents weren’t the kind of people to mirror softness or care either. This just… was how adults were, wasn’t it?

Zoey, unknowingly on the same wavelength, flopped back again and stared at the ceiling. “I mean, I don’t really know what ‘normal’ is supposed to sound like. My mom would never let me stay at someone’s place without knowing them, but then Celine said her name and my mom was like, oh! That Celine? Suddenly I was a polite little angel in her book again.”

She paused, a nervous laugh bubbling up. “Honestly? I think my mom was just starstruck.”

Mira tilted her head, amused. “You’re kind of starstruck too.”

“I am! I’m not even hiding it. This is my Olympic event.”

The two girls laughed, the tension of the strange day releasing in slow waves.

Then Zoey tilted her head toward Mira, eyes curious again. “Hey, um… did you think Rumi looked really tired too? Like, beyond tired?”

Mira hesitated. “Yeah… But also…”

Zoey perked up. “Hot, right?”

“Really hot,” Mira agreed, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “She looked like she hadn’t slept in a week, but still… yeah.”

Zoey giggled and rolled onto her side to face Mira. “God, I have no idea what her voice sounds like. Or yours. Or mine! I’ve only ever sung in my room or like… whisper-sang during PE. What if I croak?”

“You won’t croak.”

“I might croak.”

“I bet you’ll sound good.”

Zoey’s cheeks went pink, but she grinned. “You think?”

“I mean, we all landed here, didn’t we?” Mira shrugged, voice softening. “There’s gotta be some reason.”

Zoey sat with that for a moment. “I’m kinda… good-anxious now. Like… maybe this is something real. I never thought about being an idol, not seriously. But this house? You? Rumi? It’s like… we’re meant to do something.”

Mira nodded slowly. “Yeah. I feel that too.”

Silence settled again for a moment, not heavy, but calm. Comforting.

The warmth of the blankets, the strange thrill of the day, the questions lingering like mist… it all folded around them.

New strangers. New bond. And maybe, just maybe, something beginning.

🦋

The morning came slow, wrapped in a chilled hush that clung to the walls of the old house. A whisper of light filtered through the window, silver and pale, brushing over floorboards still faintly stained where she’d stood bleeding hours before.

Rumi stood under the shower, steam curling around her like smoke. The water was too hot, reddening her skin, but she didn’t move to adjust it. She just stood there, braced against the tile, head bowed under the stream as if trying to wash away more than blood.

The night still clung to her. Its weight hadn’t left her chest.

The water ran pink for a moment. Then clear.
Then cold.

She turned the faucet off when she felt her fingers begin to go numb.

In the mirror, her reflection was a blur behind steam. She wiped it clean with the edge of her towel and examined herself. The wounds she’d taken in the city were already knitting together—slim pink lines that no human would heal from so quickly. One at her side, one along her thigh, and a shallow cut high on her shoulder. Angry red, but closed. Mostly.

She moved to the small cabinet and pulled out the first aid box. Sterile gauze. Antiseptic. Skin-toned bandages. Neat, practiced fingers repatched each wound with soft precision. Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t flinch—not even when the antiseptic bit deep.

When it was done, she exhaled and turned toward the closet. Her hand hovered briefly over a hoodie before choosing a long-sleeved crop top instead—black, close-fitting, and soft. It hid the worst of the healing gash on her upper arm, but the hem exposed just a strip of skin at her waist.

Just enough to look confident.

Human.

Normal.

She pulled it on, then stepped back in front of the mirror. Still too pale. Too tired. The shadows beneath her eyes had bloomed into bruises overnight—smoky violet, heavy. Her gaze flicked to the small jar of color corrector on the shelf. She opened it, dipped two fingers in, and worked it gently into her skin.

Then came the concealer. A little over the thin white scar beneath her jaw. Another over the faint claw mark by her left temple. Just enough to hide them.

She dabbed, blended, powdered. Masking exhaustion. Softening what was sharp. She had Celine’s lessons burned into her muscle memory now. Enough pigment to look lively. Not enough to look fake. No bruises. No shadows. Smile with your mouth, not your eyes.

She tied her hair back into a neat braid, the kind she could manage without thinking. High and tight and meant to stay.

Another glance at herself. The person in the mirror looked composed. Collected. She could pass for someone with a peaceful night behind her. A normal morning ahead.

But under it all—beneath the fabric and product and training—Rumi could still feel the hum of the Honmoon. Faint, distant. But not gone.

She placed a hand lightly against her chest.

“You’re okay,” she whispered. “You’re alright.”

She looked like someone who didn’t bleed in the dark.

Someone who belonged.

She opened the door. Outside, the house was too quiet.

But soon it wouldn’t be.

And she would smile. Like Celine taught her to.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was all warm hues and filtered sunlight, a place that looked like it belonged in the centerfold of a magazine, curated but lived-in—just enough to feel real. A vase of fresh-cut wildflowers sat near the windowsill, catching the morning light. Steam curled softly from mismatched teacups. There was no clatter, no rush, just a strange, held breath.

Celine sat at the head of the table like she was born to it—composed, serene, and glowing faintly in the golden morning light. A soft shawl was draped over her shoulders, hair tucked neatly back, skin luminous without a hint of effort. She looked like she hadn’t aged in a decade.

She sipped from a delicate ceramic cup and turned to the girls—her tone honeyed and inviting.

“I hope the room was comfortable,” she said gently, her gaze sweeping between Mira and Zoey.

“It was really nice,” Mira replied, posture still slightly stiff. “Big. Warm.”

Zoey, who had barely touched her croissant, added, “It was awesome! And, like, super stylish. It’s got that kind of… vintage-but-modern-chic vibe, y’know?” She gestured vaguely in the air, smiling nervously.

Celine chuckled softly, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “I’m glad you think so. I redid it a few months ago. Rumi helped pick the color scheme.”

At the mention of her name, the girls glanced at the empty space beside them—the one chair left untouched. There was something unfinished in the air, like a melody waiting for its final note.

And then—

Bare feet, light against the wooden stairs.

Each step soft, steady, measured.

Rumi appeared in the doorway.

The world seemed to still.

She looked transformed—not just from the bloodied, fading memory of the night before, but from anything either of them had seen. Her violet hair, long and silken, had been brushed to gleaming perfection and braided over one shoulder with a precision that made it look almost sculptural. The early light filtering through the windows caught on the strands, casting faint lavender reflections against the soft skin of her cheek and collarbone.

She wore a black, cropped long-sleeve top with slight shimmer to the fabric, the kind that hinted at elegance even while baring a sliver of toned stomach. High-waisted cream trousers hugged her form in clean, flowing lines. Her bare feet made no sound on the floorboards, but their presence was noticeable—like she belonged more to the earth and air than anything else in the room.

Gone were the signs of fatigue, the grimace of pain. There were no visible bruises, no cuts. The shadows beneath her eyes were hidden beneath careful concealer. But something about her felt… manufactured. Controlled.

Beautiful, yes.

Effortlessly so.

But also… held in place.

Zoey blinked once, then again. Her jaw tilted open just a touch before she managed to whisper under her breath, “Woah. Hot.”

Rumi’s eyes snapped toward her, fast—like they always did when she caught something unexpected. Sharp. But not unkind. Her gaze softened almost immediately, her lips parting into a small smile—warm, real.

Something about that smile stole the breath from the room.

Zoey’s face went scarlet.

Rumi crossed the room with a calm grace, movements fluid like she didn’t even need to think about them. She sat beside Mira, posture perfectly straight, legs crossed at the ankles. A carefully built image of someone poised, in control.

“Did you sleep well?” Rumi asked, voice smooth and gentle. Her gaze swept over both girls, eyes lingering not out of scrutiny, but presence—like she was genuinely trying to make a connection.

Mira and Zoey stared for a beat too long—like someone had unplugged their minds for a second.

Then Zoey let out a sound that was supposed to be “yes” but came out much too high-pitched. “Y-Yes! Yes, totally!”

Rumi’s eyes flicked to her again, amused.

Mira cleared her throat. “Yes. Very well. Did you?”

“I did,” Rumi said, nodding once. Her smile dimmed just slightly, but the light in her eyes stayed. “And I wanted to apologize… for last night. For disappearing. Sometimes… company overwhelms me a little.” She looked down for a beat before lifting her eyes again. “But I’m really glad you stayed. Both of you.”

There was a sincerity there that cut through the polish. An undercurrent of something real beneath the surface presentation. She wasn’t just saying it to be polite. She meant it.

Zoey gave a slightly breathless laugh and nodded too hard. “Same! I mean—not overwhelmed. I mean, I get overwhelmed all the time. But I’m also really glad we stayed.”

Mira smiled softly, eyeing Rumi with more care this time. “We are. It’s… kind of a lot, but in a good way.”

Rumi’s shoulders eased slightly. She reached for the tea pot and poured herself a cup with steady, practiced hands.

Celine watched from the head of the table, her hands cradling her teacup like a queen with her chalice. She said nothing, only smiled, and nodded faintly at Rumi’s words, as if she had taught her to say them.

And maybe she had.

🦋

The teacups clinked lightly as Rumi added a drizzle of honey to her own. She stirred it slowly, methodically—every movement smooth and deliberate.

Celine set her cup down, her voice still velvet-smooth but with just enough weight to signal a shift.

“I already mentioned it,” she began, “but we‘re searching for bandmates for Rumi. For some time now.”

Zoey and Mira glanced at Rumi, who gave a small, confirming nod.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Solo performing never really felt right to me. I’ve tried it. But I don’t like the spotlight on me alone—it feels… hollow. I’ve always wanted something collaborative. Something real.”

Her eyes found Zoey, then Mira.

“And I think I’ve found it. You two.”

The smile she gave them was small but disarming—genuine in a way that bypassed the armor she’d spent the last hour rebuilding. It wasn’t polished for show. It was offered like a hand held out in faith.

Zoey sat up straighter, blinking wide. “Really?”

Mira looked more hesitant but nodded once, slowly, considering.

Celine tilted her head ever so slightly. “That’s a strong sentiment to lead with,” she said, not unkind, but pointed. “But if that’s true, then let’s talk about strengths. Knowing each other’s tools is essential. What can each of you bring?”

She leaned forward just a little, smiling, the question posed like a challenge gift-wrapped in silk.

Zoey’s mouth opened before her brain fully caught up. “Uh—right. I write. Like, lyrics. Poems. Stories. I’ve been posting stuff online since I was thirteen. And I rap. A lot. I’m better with rhythm than melody.”

Rumi turned toward her slightly, the smile on her lips returning—not too big, but just enough to be felt.

“Your voice has punch,” she said. “I could hear it even when you were just talking yesterday. It cuts. In a good way. Like it knows how to land.”

Zoey blinked. “Oh. Wow. Uh. Thanks.”

“She’s right,” Mira added. “You’ve got presence.”

Zoey flushed, clearly not used to the compliment.

Celine nodded faintly, as if checking a box. “Rap and lyric writing. Strong start.”

She looked to Mira.

“I dance,” Mira said, more composed. “I choreograph. I’ve trained in ballet, contemporary, hip hop. Movement’s kind of how I process things. I’ve worked with small groups before—never anything big—but I’ve built routines from scratch. I like making things that tell a story with the body.”

Rumi’s eyes lit up at that. “That’s exactly what I can’t do.”

Mira blinked. “What?”

“I can follow choreography, sure,” Rumi said. “But I don’t think in motion. I think in melody and texture. I’m more of a song finisher than a starter—I tweak things. Add dimension. I sing more than I speak, sometimes.”

Zoey snorted softly. “You do kinda have a music-video voice.”

That got a real laugh out of Rumi. Soft, but real.

Mira smiled too. “Then maybe we’re a weird kind of perfect.”

There was a small, comfortable pause.

“I think so,” Rumi said. “I really do.”

Celine sipped her tea again and set it down with a quiet clink.

“Excellent,” she said. “You’ve got potential. But potential is only the first note—you’ll need harmony, stamina, and drive if you’re serious. That’s what I intend to test.”

She looked to Rumi.

“After breakfast. Let’s see how your voices blend.”

Rumi nodded once, calm but ready.

And across the table, Mira and Zoey shared a glance—not one of nerves this time, but something closer to anticipation.

There was music waiting in the walls of this house.

And maybe… they were meant to be the ones to let it out.

🦋

The air in the rehearsal room felt different now—quieter, expectant. No noise from the house filtered in. Even the trees outside the tall windows stood still, as if waiting.

Celine stood by the wall, near the playback controls. “Lightcatcher,” she said again, this time more softly, tapping her phone. “Let’s see what you three sound like… together.”

The track began—gentle chords, a warm synth beneath, like sunlight breaking across a lake. The melody came slow and rising, familiar but open enough to be claimed by new voices.

Mira stepped forward first. Her hand curled once by her side, then she nodded, finding the rhythm. “Voice two.”

Zoey grinned, nervous but electrified. “I’ll take three. I know this one. Kind of. Let’s wing it.”

Rumi, who had lingered at the edge of the circle, remained quiet for a heartbeat. Then, as Mira and Zoey stepped into their harmonies, she slowly moved inward—drawn not by expectation, but instinct.

Their voices blended, hesitant but sweet.

“When the world grew quiet, and shadows fell low,
I thought I was alone—
But then came your glow…”

Mira’s voice held a steady, breathy resonance, grounded and rhythmic—like a heartbeat beneath the music.

Zoey’s was lighter, brighter, cutting through like windchimes stirred by wind. She swayed slightly as she sang, eyes darting to the others for rhythm cues.

And then Rumi sang.

At first it was just a few bars—gentle, layered in under theirs. Her tone was hushed but precise, each syllable a thread in silk.

Zoey glanced sideways, and her mouth parted. “Wait…”

Rumi opened more into the chorus, her voice unfolding like wings, full of emotion and impossible clarity. Rich. Deep. The kind of voice that didn’t just sound good—it commanded.

Mira stumbled over a note, her breath catching. It wasn’t just the pitch-perfect delivery. It was the feeling underneath. Like every lyric carried a memory. Like every word meant something.

Rumi didn’t push—she bloomed.

And then came the chorus:

“So I’ll catch your light when you can’t find it,
Shine it back when your skies turn grey,
Even when the night is silent,
I won’t let your flame fade away.”

Her volume rose—not in force, but in clarity. Strong. Soaring. Effortless. The room shook with it—not physically, but viscerally. The kind of voice that forced stillness. Mira’s breath caught in her throat.

Zoey whispered, awestruck, “Oh my god…”

But then something shifted beneath their feet.

A hum—not in the instruments. In the floorboards.

Mira felt it first: a vibration traveling up through her heels, like the pulse of something magical waking beneath them.

Then came the light.

It began beneath Rumi’s feet. Thin, glowing blue lines spread outward in an elegant, spiraling pattern, curling between the floorboards like water moving uphill. They shimmered, then split into three threads—one sliding toward Mira, one toward Zoey.

The moment the light touched their shoes, something clicked. A warm thrum echoed in their bones, like a chord they didn’t know they’d been waiting to hear.

Zoey staggered back a step. “Okay. Uh. Mira? The floor. The floor is—”

“Glowing,” Mira said, eyes wide.

The blue lines didn’t just stay on the floor. They rose like gentle strands of mist, curling around their ankles and wrists, forming barely-there rings of light that pulsed once.

Welcome home, the light seemed to say—not in words, but in knowing.

Rumi’s voice hit the last note of the bridge, and then stopped.

Silence.

Not awkward. Not confused.

The silence of something sacred finishing its sentence.

Mira and Zoey stood frozen, looking at each other, then down at the floor, then back at Rumi—who was breathing deeply, but not surprised.

The lines of light dimmed slowly, leaving faint glowing arcs in their minds’ eyes even after they vanished.

No one moved.

Then Zoey whispered, “…Did we just unlock a magical floorboard with harmonies?”

Silence still hung in the air like a held breath.

Zoey opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Mira rubbed her arms, her skin prickling.

“I—uh—what was that?” Zoey finally said, her voice quieter than usual. “That… that wasn’t just lighting, right?”

Celine stepped forward, smooth and graceful, as if she had been waiting for the cue. Her expression was warm, placating, a soft smile painted onto her lips like blush.

“That,” she said gently, “was the Honmoon welcoming you.”

She reached out and touched the edge of the table, her fingers trailing along the grain. The music had stopped, but its echo lingered in the walls, in the girls’ chests.

“It’s… rare,” she continued, tone almost reverent. “The Honmoon is the bond that ties voices together, something deeper than harmony or talent. It chooses triads—three souls who resonate just right, who can share the burden of light. You’re part of it now.”

Zoey’s brows furrowed. “Wait, like… soulmates for singing?”

Mira looked skeptical. “It felt like more than that.”

Celine nodded slowly. “It is. The Honmoon protects this region, this house, this mountain. It doesn’t choose lightly. But what you felt—that warmth, the way the light wrapped around you—it means you were chosen. Just like Rumi was. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

There was a moment where it might have ended there. Where Celine’s curated calm might have glossed over everything strange and sharp.

But Rumi shifted where she stood, her chair scraped gently as she sat up straighter. She didn’t look at Celine. She looked at Mira and Zoey.

She spoke softly, but her words cut clean.

“There’s more.”

Celine’s eyes flicked to her. Not surprised—only irritated at the timing.

Rumi didn’t stop.

“The Honmoon isn’t just about music,” she said. “It’s a shield. A seal. Demons were once part of this land. Some still try to crawl their way back. But under the Honmoon, they’re banned. Bound. Kept out. Or kept down.”

Zoey’s eyes widened. Mira leaned forward slowly.

“But the bond—the light—it fades. Every generation, it weakens unless new voices renew it. Three are needed. Always three.”

She met their eyes, first Zoey’s, then Mira’s.

“That’s why you’re here. That’s why it chose you.”

The weight of it settled across the table like a shadow.

Zoey let out a shaky breath, half-laughing. “Demons? Like—actual demons? You mean metaphorically, right?”

“No,” Rumi said. “Not metaphorically.”

“Holy shit,” Mira whispered.

“It chose you,” Rumi repeated, softer this time. “Because it had to. Because I couldn’t hold it alone.”

Celine stepped in again, her voice smooth as porcelain. “You don’t have to accept anything yet. But the Honmoon doesn’t often make mistakes. It’s an honor to be chosen. A responsibility, yes—but one with beauty. Purpose.”

“I don’t even know if my parents would say yes,” Zoey said, sounding more overwhelmed by the moment. “I didn’t exactly come here planning to fight darkness and join a harmony cult.”

Mira snorted, which broke the tension for a breath.

“And I didn’t come here to get haunted by glowing lights,” Mira added. “Even if it did feel kinda… right.”

Rumi looked down at her hands, quiet.

“I didn’t want it either,” she admitted. “Not at first. I still don’t know if I’m the right person to carry it. But I can’t carry it alone.”

The words hovered for a second.

Celine’s tone shifted then—cooler, more focused. “If you accept, I’ll speak to both of your families,” she said simply. “You’ll stay here until things are arranged. It will be done properly.”

There was something in her voice that wasn’t quite warmth. Not quite invitation.

More… inevitability.

The girls didn’t answer. Not right away.

Because some part of them already had.

And the Honmoon, still faint and flickering beneath the table, knew it.

Chapter Text

The terrace outside the house felt like a world apart—wooden planks sun-warmed beneath bare feet, the scent of pine resin thick in the air. The forest stretched out like a velvet sea of green, quiet and indifferent. The mountains stood behind it, old and unmoved.

Rumi stood at the edge of the deck, spine long, arms resting on the carved railing, eyes watching something far beyond the trees. Morning wind teased strands of her braid, lifting lavender wisps around her face. Her crop top clung neatly to her back, black against the pale shimmer of her trousers. Her silhouette looked serene. Still.

But the tension was there—coiled beneath her skin like a second pulse.

The door creaked open behind her. Footsteps.

Mira stepped out first, arms rigid at her sides, face sharp with anger she hadn’t had time to swallow.

Zoey trailed after her, arms crossed tight, jaw clenched as if she were trying to hold something in.

Rumi didn’t turn.

“Do we even get a say?” Mira snapped. Her voice cut through the quiet like flint on stone. “Or is this one of those chosen-by-fate bullshit stories where we just shut up and play along?”

Rumi turned slowly, her violet braid falling over one shoulder. Her expression was unreadable at first, then softened—like she wasn’t surprised. Like she’d been waiting for this question.

“You do get a say,” she said. “Both of you do.”

Mira scoffed. “Yeah? And what happens if we say no? If we just pack up, walk back down the mountain, pretend none of this ever happened?”

There was a pause. Not long. Just enough.

Rumi answered without flinching. “Then the Honmoon weakens.”

Her voice was calm. Too calm.

“The seal frays. It takes time, but it breaks down. Demons slip through the cracks. Little ones, at first. Then worse. And eventually—” She gestured vaguely toward the trees. “People die.”

Zoey made a small sound—barely audible.

Mira stepped forward. “And that’s on us?”

“No,” Rumi said. Her voice didn’t rise. “It’s not. But it’s the result.”

“Don’t give me riddles, give me answers,” Mira growled. “We’re not soldiers. I’m not a sword. I didn’t ask for this, and I don’t owe anything to some magical moon system just because it decided we’d look good on a poster.”

“You’re right,” Rumi said, and her voice cracked just slightly—not from weakness, but memory. “You didn’t ask for this. Neither did I.”

That stopped Mira for a beat.

“I was chosen at birth.”

Mira blinked.

“What?”

“My mother… and her group. The first generation under this Honmoon,” Rumi went on. “They knew the next link in the line would be born soon. I was marked before I could even speak.”

There was something hollow and oddly serene in her voice, like she’d told the story a hundred times to herself and was still waiting for it to mean something else.

“I’ve trained since I could walk. Fought against demons since I was ten. By the time I understood what I was doing, it was already too late to imagine a life without it. So no—” Her eyes lifted to Mira’s, steady and raw. “I didn’t have a choice. Not a real one.”

Zoey made a soft sound, almost a protest, but Rumi raised a hand.

“But you do. That’s the difference.”

She turned to face them both, posture straight but voice softer now. “If you choose to walk away, I’ll understand. And I’ll carry this alone, like I’ve been doing. I’m good at it. I can keep going.”

The weight of that felt real. Not dramatic. Not performative.

Just… factual. A truth that lived in her bones.

“But if you stay—even just as friends, as a group, as girls who sing together—then we can build something else. You don’t have to fight demons to be in this. We can just be an idol group. Sing. Dance. Grow. Shine. You can take time. You can talk to your families, your friends. Think it through.”

Rumi hesitated, something flickering in her eyes.

“Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Whoever matters to you. Whoever you’d need to ask.”

There was a pause.

Then Zoey let out a little surprised laugh. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Did you just casually ask if we were single?”

A wide grin broke across her face as she pointed. “Rumi, was that a subtle flirt or just a vibe check?”

Rumi blinked, startled—and then a faint flush crept up her neck. She exhaled a laugh that caught her off-guard. “I—no, I just meant—like, support systems—”

Mira folded her arms. “That’s not the point.”

The levity dropped.

Zoey’s grin faded, sheepish.

Mira stepped forward again, her voice low but cutting. “You can joke about it all you want, but this isn’t normal. You don’t get to bury a revelation like ‘demon hunting is optional’ under talk of girlfriends and sparkly stage lights.”

Rumi didn’t flinch. She just nodded.

“You’re right,” she said. “It’s not normal. None of this is.”

She met Mira’s eyes with her own, solemn and unwavering.

“I’m not trying to convince you. I’m not sugarcoating it either. I’m just giving you space—to choose what you want this to mean.”

Mira didn’t say anything for a long moment. Her gaze lingered on Rumi, searching for cracks, manipulation, an angle.

But there was none.

Just a girl, sixteen, barefoot and tired, standing under the weight of something much older than herself.

Finally, Mira looked away. Her voice, when it came, was quieter.

“I’ll think about it.”

Zoey glanced between them, rubbing the back of her neck. “Same. I mean, it’s not exactly what I expected when I said I wanted a summer adventure. But… I kinda want to see where this goes.”

Rumi smiled—not with relief, but something gentler. Grateful.

“I want that too,” she said. “Whatever this becomes.”

🦋

It started with a small slip of paper.

Mira handed it over at the edge of the garden after breakfast, avoiding Celine’s gaze as she passed her the folded note. It had her mother’s number written in her neat, blocky handwriting.

“You’ll have better luck getting through than I ever did,” Mira muttered, trying to sound casual.

Celine took it gently between two fingers, giving her a single, knowing nod. “Thank you. I’ll be respectful.”

Mira didn’t answer. Just walked away, arms crossed tightly, shoulders drawn up like armor.

It was late morning when Celine stepped into the sunroom—a space soaked in amber light, quiet and glass-walled on three sides. She sat by the antique side table, her phone resting on the lacquered wood beside a ceramic teapot still steaming from breakfast.

She picked it up and dialed, her thumb gliding across the screen with practiced ease.

The voice on the other end picked up after three rings. Female, brisk.

“Hello?”

Celine’s voice shifted into that warm, calm register she’d perfected over decades. “Good morning. This is Celine calling from the Sunlight Sisters Foundation. Is this Mrs. Takanashi, Mira’s legal guardian?”

“Yes, that’s me,” the woman replied, guarded but polite.

“I’m reaching out to let you know that Mira arrived safely at one of our affiliated resorts yesterday. She was with another guest and is well taken care of. I wanted to reassure you before moving forward.”

“Oh! Well… thank you,” the woman said, her voice immediately softening into something lighter, vaguely performative. “She doesn’t usually tell us when she goes anywhere, so I’m glad someone reached out. That’s very responsible of you.”

Celine smiled faintly at the response, though her voice remained professional. “She’s an exceptional young woman. One of our talent scouts noted her potential, and after speaking with her, I believe she would be an excellent fit for our program.”

“You mean… the singing thing?” the woman asked, distracted, like she was already multitasking.

“Yes. Our training initiative through the Sunlight Sisters Foundation—focused on music, performance, personal development. We’d like to offer Mira the chance to train with us under contract. She’d be part of a curated mentorship program. However…” Celine allowed just the right pause, “since she’s seventeen, we require your formal permission before we can move forward with any legal arrangements.”

Another voice came onto the line—Mira’s father, by the sound of it. “A contract, huh? And she’d be living with you full-time, I assume?”

“Yes,” Celine said, still smooth. “There would be housing provided at our academy estate, with full supervision, education, and personal coaching.”

“Well,” the father said with a short laugh, “frankly, that sounds like a dream come true. If you’re willing to take her on, you’d be doing us all a favor.”

Celine didn’t respond to the note of relief in his tone—just let the silence draw itself out for a half-second.

“We’ve always encouraged Mira to chase her goals,” her mother chimed in quickly, trying to sound invested. “She’s very… driven. Strong-willed. This could be the structure she needs.”

“Mira doesn’t open up easily,” her father added. “But maybe you’ll have better luck getting through to her.”

Celine’s gaze flicked toward the hallway just outside the sunroom.

Mira stood there, just out of sight, only her shadow visible past the frosted glass. Not hiding—but not entering either.

Listening.

Not surprised.

Her arms were crossed tightly, jaw set, eyes flat. It wasn’t new. She’d known—deep down—that her parents were only waiting for a good excuse to let go. A way to feel righteous about it.

And now they had it. Neatly packaged in a call from a reputable foundation. Not a missing person. Not a runaway. An “opportunity.”

Her mother’s voice floated down the phone, bright as tinsel. “We’d be happy to sign whatever papers you need. Just send them through email, and we’ll get them back to you today.”

“Of course,” Celine said softly.

“Thank you so much again. Really, this is such a blessing. She’s… a lot to handle, sometimes, but I’m sure she’ll thrive under someone like you.”

The call ended soon after, all polite goodbyes and cheerful affirmations.

Celine let the phone rest gently on the table and reached for the tea, her face unreadable.

Mira stepped into the doorway then. She didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch.

But her eyes met Celine’s with quiet clarity.

“They didn’t even ask to talk to me,” she said flatly.

Celine didn’t look away. “No. They didn’t.”

A beat of silence passed between them. The light moved on the polished floorboards, stretching long and warm.

“They’ve been waiting for something like this,” Mira muttered. “A clean break. No guilt. Just someone else to file the paperwork and pretend they raised me right.”

“You deserved better,” Celine said, voice low but firm.

Mira’s mouth tightened. “I didn’t expect better.”

“But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have had it.”

The words hung in the air, solid and unwavering.

Mira stared past her, out into the trees beyond the glass wall.

Then—softly, barely audible—she said, “So what happens now?”

Celine poured a second cup of tea and slid it across the table. Her tone was lighter this time. Warmer.

“Now,” she said, “you decide where your story actually starts.”

🦋

Zoey was halfway through her vocal warm-up when she heard footsteps echo down the long tiled hall—heels, confident, impatient. She turned toward the sound just as the main double doors opened, the filtered sunlight briefly flaring across the polished floors.

And there, in crisp designer sunglasses and a linen pantsuit too sharp for the soft aesthetic of the place, stood her mother.

“What—Mom?” Zoey blinked. “What are you doing here?”

Her mother pulled off her glasses, her manicured brows rising. “I was invited, apparently.”

Celine entered behind her, smiling like the dawn, clasping her hands gently in front of her. “Zoey, I hope it’s alright. I thought your mother might appreciate the opportunity to see everything herself. Transparency is important.”

Zoey’s mouth worked silently for a second. “You didn’t tell me—”

“I didn’t want to pressure you,” Celine said smoothly. “But I also didn’t want to leave your guardians out of the loop. After all, we’re talking about potential.”

Zoey’s mother looked around the entryway with a practiced eye. “This place looks more like a luxury wellness retreat than a training facility. Is this really what you do?”

“Among other things,” Celine replied, her tone warm and lightly amused. “We believe in fostering the whole person—talent, mind, spirit. The girls train in voice, dance, writing, and performance. We also provide accredited private tutoring. Every academic requirement is met here on site.”

Zoey shifted uncomfortably beside them. “I haven’t even said I wanted to do it yet.”

“Of course not,” Celine said, turning to her with a gentle smile. “That’s the point of the trial period. You’re here over break. Why not explore? Try. If it feels right, the invitation remains. If not, you’ve still grown. Nothing is lost.”

Her mother frowned. “She goes to school in California, with her father. This trip was a compromise. A vacation, not a relocation.”

“Entirely understood,” Celine said without missing a beat. “This is not a demand. Merely an opportunity. We’d never ask her to commit blindly. Just… dip a toe into the future that might await.”

Zoey’s mother crossed her arms, still surveying the hall like she was checking for hidden exits. “I’d need to speak to her father. He has primary custody.”

“Of course,” Celine replied. “Reception can be tricky here, but I would be happy to host you both again in a few days if you’d like to speak in person. I can forward all documentation—program outlines, contracts, certifications—whatever would help him feel comfortable.”

“I’d appreciate that,” her mother said, nodding slowly. “He’s… skeptical of anything that sounds too good to be true.”

Celine only smiled, eyes glinting softly. “Then let me prove that it is true.”

Zoey watched her mother’s expression, trying to read it—not anger, not excitement. Just careful curiosity. She wasn’t sure if her mom was here for her, or for Celine. Honestly, probably a bit of both.

“And this… music thing,” her mom asked, turning to Zoey now. “Is it what you want?”

Zoey hesitated. Mira and Rumi had been sparring that morning—graceful, serious, focused. There had been something magnetic about it all. But she hadn’t decided anything. Not yet.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Maybe? It’s kinda a lot.”

Her mother actually smiled a little at that. “Well. At least you’re being honest for once.”

Celine gestured toward the inner part of the estate. “Would you like a tour? You’re welcome to meet the other girls, see the grounds.”

Her mother raised an eyebrow. “Of course.”

Celine led her gently down the corridor, explaining the studio schedule, the curriculum, the therapist on staff (“of course”), and the carefully selected mentors who rotated through to support the girls in every area of development.

Mira passed them briefly in the hallway—arms crossed, eyes sharp, lips set in a quiet, defensive line. She gave Zoey’s mother a polite nod but didn’t stop. Her mind was clearly elsewhere.

Rumi followed moments later. Her presence softer, quieter. She smiled with that easy poise she always wore, hands loosely clasped in front of her, hair braided neatly. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said to Zoey’s mother.

“You must be the one Zoey talks about,” her mother said, assessing. “The singer.”

Rumi gave a small bow of her head. “We’re all singers. Just at different stages of learning.”

Her mother narrowed her eyes slightly at that—maybe impressed. Maybe confused.

The tour faded around the corner, leaving Zoey standing alone in the entry hall, arms wrapped around herself.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon light spilled across the garden in muted gold, catching on the wind chimes above and setting them into a soft clinking lullaby. The paper lanterns strung overhead swayed with the breeze, as if they were breathing. Zoey sat under the arbor, half-sinking into the cushioned bench, her legs drawn up, bare feet tucked under her. A half-melted iced matcha sat sweating beside her, untouched.

She didn’t know how long she’d been there.

Long enough for the buzz of thoughts to slow into dull static.

Long enough to admit she didn’t want to go back.

Her mother’s voice broke the silence. Calm. Controlled. Careful.

“There you are.”

Zoey turned her head slowly. “Hey.”

Her mom stepped under the arbor, slipping off her sunglasses and folding them into her jacket pocket with the precision of someone used to making sure nothing wrinkled, nothing spilled. Her sleek ponytail was still intact after a full tour of the resort. She looked less like someone’s mom and more like someone’s agent.

She sat beside Zoey and crossed her legs, slow and deliberate.

“I wasn’t sure I’d find you,” she said. “It’s a big place.”

Zoey shrugged. “I like the quiet.”

Her mom gave a tight-lipped smile. “I can see why.”

They sat like that for a while, the distance between them not just physical. A few birds chirped distantly. Somewhere behind the house, someone practiced scales on a piano.

Her mother exhaled. “I have to admit—I didn’t expect it to be this… put-together. I thought you were at some pop-up music camp with glitter walls and instant noodles.”

Zoey let out a dry laugh. “So did I, kind of.”

Her mom looked around, nodding faintly. “But it’s more than that. It’s serious. Structured. And that Celine woman…” She whistled softly. “She’s persuasive.”

“She’s something,” Zoey said, not quite able to place her tone.

Her mother turned to her. “And what do you think? Of all this?”

Zoey didn’t answer immediately. Her throat felt dry.

“I don’t miss it,” she said finally.

Her mother tilted her head. “California?”

Zoey nodded. “Dad’s place. School. The traffic. The always-sunny bullshit. I don’t miss it. Not even a little. And honestly? I don’t really miss Seoul either. We’ve bounced so much between the two that neither feels like home. I’m just… tired of not belonging anywhere.”

Her mom was quiet.

Zoey pressed on, voice quieter. “But here… it’s weird. It’s intense. But it kind of makes sense.”

Her mother studied her face carefully, the way she always did when Zoey said something that sounded like conviction. Then she shifted slightly.

“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” she said. “That much is obvious. I could tell the second I saw the studio. The teachers. The staff. And Rumi—she’s… electric. You have a chance to be around that. To become that.”

Zoey looked down at her knees.

“And you want that for me.”

“I want the option for you,” her mom corrected. “Whether you want it is up to you. But you don’t get opportunities like this twice. So if there’s even a sliver of you that thinks this might be worth it… I’ll talk to your father. I’ll try to win him over.”

Zoey looked at her. “He won’t just say yes.”

“No,” her mom said. “He’ll want proof. Paperwork. A call. He’ll want to speak to Celine himself. And you.”

Zoey nodded. “Right.”

“He’s still your father.”

“I know.”

Another silence stretched between them, not hostile—just worn.

Her mother leaned forward, elbows on knees, looking out into the shifting light.

“You’ve always had so much potential, Zo,” she said softly. “Even when you were little, you had that thing… that spark. I didn’t know how to handle it. Neither did your dad. Maybe that’s on us.”

Zoey blinked. Her mother rarely got this real.

“But here?” her mother continued, her voice tightening just slightly. “They see it. And they’ll sharpen it. If you’re willing. And if you’re not… that’s okay, too. But you don’t get to pretend it isn’t there.”

Zoey’s eyes pricked with heat. She didn’t answer.

Her mother sighed and stood, smoothing down her blazer.

“I’ll stay for another day or two,” she said. “Get the paperwork from Celine. Try your father again when the reception’s better. But whatever we decide—you decide too. Okay?”

Zoey gave a small nod.

Her mother leaned down and kissed the top of her head, surprisingly gentle.

“I’d be happy if you stayed in Korea,” she said quietly. “But I’d be proud if you chose to.”

She left after that, heels softly crunching the gravel.

Zoey sat in the growing dusk, her shoulders hunched slightly, eyes fixed on nothing.

Maybe she didn’t belong to either home.

But maybe—just maybe—she could make one here.

One note. One song. One breath at a time.

🦋

The room smelled faintly of lavender and warm steam, the scent curling into corners like a breath held too long. Mira towel-dried her hair by the window, the hem of her oversized T-shirt brushing the tops of her thighs. Her skin still glowed from the shower, a little pink around the collarbones. Zoey sat cross-legged on her bed, damp curls clinging to her cheeks, wrapped in a hoodie that wasn’t hers. Probably Rumi’s. It hung too big off her shoulders and smelled like pine and something silken beneath it.

Outside, the light was fading slowly. Not a sunset, not yet—but the soft, silvery pause before everything gives in to night.

They were quiet, but not awkwardly so. The kind of silence that lives between two people who have already decided to trust each other.

Zoey scratched behind her ear, fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. “Rumi’s… honestly really nice. Like—nice nice.”

Mira’s voice drifted from the window, low. “Yeah. But kind of…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Zoey tilted her head. “You mean mysterious?”

Mira turned slightly, met her eyes. “Empty.”

The word landed like a soft knock against the ribcage.

Zoey looked down, processing it. Mira’s gaze returned to the trees.

“She doesn’t really talk, you know?” Mira added after a moment. “She sings. That’s when something comes through. But when she’s not… it’s like she’s behind a wall.”

Zoey nodded. “Yeah. Big, thick, iron gates kind of wall.”

They let that sit for a moment.

“She’s probably had to be like that,” Mira said softly. “Being chosen since birth? That sounds like hell.”

Zoey hummed, eyes distant. “I think Celine’s kind. Not like fake-kind. Like… solid. She gets stuff done.”

“She’s terrifying in the nicest possible way,” Mira said, cracking a half-smile. “But yeah. I trust her.”

Zoey leaned back against the headboard, the hoodie slipping slightly from one shoulder. “This is going to be hard, huh.”

Mira’s eyes softened. “Strenuous. But worth it. If I get to make my dances real? If someone actually performs something I choreograph? That’s everything.”

Zoey looked at her with something close to admiration. “I want to sing. With you. With her. Not someone else’s lyrics. Ours.”

The moment felt round, warm, sealed. Like the final note of a harmony that had only just begun forming.

Suddenly a crack was felt.

Not a sound, not quite. More like a shudder that rippled through the wood, through the floorboards, through their teeth. The air thickened like water around them. The lights dimmed—not flickering, but recoiling. Something had shifted. Or woken.

Zoey sat up straight. Mira was already on her feet.

A door slammed somewhere in the house—hard—shaking the walls like a shot fired indoors. It wasn’t the clumsy noise of someone angry. It was deliberate. Urgent. The sound of a line being crossed.

They flung the bedroom door open, bare feet slapping wood, their breath caught in their throats.

The hallway was shadow-streaked and wind-swept. Cold air knifed up the stairs from below.

Rumi appeared like a storm breaking open.

Her braid whipped behind her as she sprinted across the lower floor, violet strands catching the light in sharp silver-blue streaks. Her feet were bare, slamming hard against the floor. No slippers. No jacket. Her black shirt clung to her ribs. The look on her face was pure, no-bullshit focus—sharp as a blade, deadly as a thrown knife.

She didn’t glance up. Didn’t pause.

She leapt down the final half of the staircase in a single, effortless bound, landing like a shadow. The front door creaked just for a second—then she shouldered it open with brutal force. Wood cracked against wood. The wind howled inward, a single scream from the outside world.

And just like that—

She was gone.

No explanation.

No hesitation.

Vanished into the night like something chasing a signal only she could hear.

The cold swept in, sharp and wet with the scent of rain that hadn’t started yet. The door swung slightly on its hinges.

Mira’s heart was thundering. Zoey took a half-step forward, unsure whether to call out after her.

Celine’s voice sliced the silence.

“Don’t.”

They turned. She was already there.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs, bathed in low light. Her face was calm, perfectly calm. Not even a crease in her forehead. Her shawl didn’t move in the breeze, as if the wind itself respected her boundaries.

“She’ll be fine,” Celine said, voice cool, measured. “She always is.”

She moved to the door, one hand pressing it gently closed until the latch clicked into place again.

“You don’t need to worry.”

There was no warmth in her tone. But no malice either. Just certainty. The unshakable kind that came from having seen this many times before.

“She will handle it,” Celine added, as though ticking off a chore list. “This isn’t your responsibility.”

Her gaze caught them both in place like pins through silk.

“Not yet.”

She turned and walked away without another word. Her silhouette dissolved into shadow before she reached the end of the hall.

Mira stared at the now-closed door.

It had barely been ten seconds.

“Isn’t Rumi basically her daughter?” she asked, quietly, as if breaking some kind of spell. “I mean… she raised her. Trained her. That’s what she said, right?”

Zoey didn’t answer. She didn’t know how to. Her hand was still halfway out, fingers curled slightly toward the door, like her body hadn’t caught up yet.

All she could feel was the pulse.
Still faintly humming in the wood, in her chest, in the base of her skull.

The Honmoon had spoken. Not in words. In instinct.
In warning.
In invitation.

And something had answered.

Quietly.

Decisively.

From out there, in the dark.
Where Rumi had gone.

Barefoot.
Alone.
Again.

🦋

The door clicked shut again, but it didn’t seal the air.

Not really.

The cold lingered—soft now, not biting. The edges of it curled gently around Mira’s ankles, brushed Zoey’s bare arms like a breath from something far away. It wasn’t a warning anymore. It was a whisper.

A promise.

They stood there for a long second, not moving. Just listening.

Only the strange silence that came after thunder.

Mira exhaled slowly, the breath dragging out of her like she’d been holding it too long.

“That was a demon outbreak,” she said, voice low but steady.

Zoey blinked. “You think?”

Mira nodded once, sharp. “What else could it be? She didn’t even look back. She just—went.”

“Headfirst,” Zoey murmured, still staring at the door. “Like she does this all the time.”

“She probably does.”

That landed heavy between them.

Zoey’s arms folded across her chest as if trying to contain something in her ribcage. “Did you feel that?” she asked suddenly. Her voice wasn’t alarmed—but it had an edge of awe in it. “Like… like we could feel her. Rumi. I know that sounds crazy.”

Mira hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I felt her too.”

“It was like… I don’t know. Cold, but not bad cold? More like wind through trees. Like she was—”

“Saying it’ll be okay,” Mira finished for her.

Zoey’s mouth parted slightly in surprise. “Yeah.”

Neither of them said anything for a beat. The floor beneath their feet had stopped humming, but something inside them still pulsed faintly—like a second heartbeat. Not theirs. Not entirely.

It didn’t feel like fear.

It felt like reach.

Like they were being folded into something older, larger, and only partially seen.

And then—

A note.

Soft. Carried through air like the first thread of dawn.

It wasn’t being sung aloud—not by a human voice, anyway. But it was a melody, unmistakable. It seemed to rise from the walls, from the very bones of the house. A haunting tune, resolute and strange.

Mira looked at Zoey.

Zoey looked back.

And together, as if pulled by the same invisible string, their lips parted and they both began to hum.

It was a tune they sometimes hummed to themselves.

They knew it.

The words brushed against their memories like an old photograph:

“We are huntress, voices strong…”

The melody wound through their throats like it had been waiting.

Like it had always belonged to them.

It wasn’t loud. Or even particularly joyful.

But it was powerful. Steady.

Mira wrapped her arms around herself, eyes glassy. “What even is this?” she whispered.

Zoey didn’t answer. She was still humming, her eyes distant, pupils a little too wide.

The song passed through them like light through stained glass—fragmented and vivid. As if somewhere out there, Rumi was singing it first, and the sound was just finding its way back to them.

They didn’t know the whole song.

Not yet.

But the words they did know clung to their skin like magic:

“We are huntress, voices strong—
Fighting demons with our song.”

A bond was forming.

Or maybe awakening.

Not just between them. But through them.

To Rumi.
To the Honmoon.
To a future they hadn’t said yes to—but could already feel calling.

Mira broke the silence first. “We’re part of this,” she said, voice low, almost reluctant. “Even if we don’t know what that means yet.”

Zoey looked back toward the door where Rumi had vanished into the dark.

“I think we will,” she said.

The house held its breath.

The wind outside began to shift.

And somewhere in the distant trees, a third pulse echoed faintly—like the strike of a drumbeat only they could hear.

🦋

The night opened to her like a second skin.

Bare feet struck earth and stone in rhythm—fast, effortless. Cold dew kissed her soles, grass and gravel passing beneath her as nothing more than sensation, her body too focused to care about bruises or blood. The braid slapped against her back like a whip, tight and heavy. The cold wind wrapped around her, sharp and bracing, but she welcomed it. Needed it.

She was humming before she realized it.

The tune had threaded into her bones—no, it had found her first, lit up in her chest like fire spreading through dry brush.

“We are huntress…”

It wasn’t Mira’s voice or Zoey’s she heard exactly. Not even her own. It was something between them. Of them.

The hum curled beneath her ribs, electrifying. Their bond was thin still—new—but real. Real enough to reach across distance and blood and echo in her chest like a second pulse.

It sharpened her.

Like light refracted through water, Rumi clarified.

Faster. Cleaner. Brighter.

She sprinted across the uneven ridges of the hillside and didn’t stumble once. Her breath moved steady and measured, heart hammering in a rhythm older than language. The Honmoon inside her shone like a brand. She wasn’t scared. Not anymore.

She was electric.

And the demons were close.

She could smell them.

The air was tainted—wrong in the way spoiled fruit smelled sweet before it curdled. A flicker of shadow between trees, too low to the ground. Wrong movement. Too many limbs. The giggling skitter of teeth over bark.

Three of them.

Small. Weak. Just scouts.

Still dangerous to anyone else—but not to her.

Rumi didn’t hesitate.

She ducked low beneath a twisted branch, twisted mid-air, and landed in a blur of motion—one arm cutting wide, raw spirit drawn into form. Her blade wasn’t steel, not really. It was light made solid. Will made sharp.

It arced like lightning. The first demon shrieked before it even understood it was dying.

She spun and sliced the second across the midsection, ichor blooming like ink in water. It barely got a claw up before vanishing into smoke.

The third lunged—fangs bared, eyes like pits—but she met it with her palm open, thrusting a pulse of raw force forward so hard it cracked the air.

It hit a tree twenty feet back. Didn’t rise again.

Silence followed.

Rumi stood in the clearing, chest heaving. A shimmer of sweat clung to her collarbones, but she wasn’t even winded.

The forest around her fell quiet again.

No eyes watching. No more shadows. Just trees. Grass. Night.

She laughed. Breathless, sudden.

Not cruel. Not victorious.

Just… relieved.

This, she thought, I can do.

If they stayed safe—Mira and Zoey—if they hummed and danced and built something bright…
And she hunted in the dark, like this…

Maybe it could work.

Maybe it didn’t always have to hurt.

Rumi knelt for a moment, her fingers pressed into the damp soil. Not in prayer, exactly.

But in thanks.

She could still feel their humming inside her chest.

Small. Fragile.

But warm.

She rose again.

She would keep them safe.

No matter what.

And she ran, the night parting before her like it knew she belonged to it.

Chapter Text

The rehearsal studio stretched wide and glowing beneath the golden spill of late afternoon sun. Dust shimmered in the beams that slanted through the open balcony doors, and the faint hum of cicadas threaded through the quiet before the music cued.

The three girls stood before the mirrored wall, loose clothes sticking lightly to their skin. Zoey was toweling off the last bit of water from her freshly washed curls, her socks mismatched, her breath already quick from nerves. Mira cracked her knuckles and bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, focused but eager.

Rumi stood to the side, tying the end of her braid with practiced hands.

She was dressed more modestly than the others — black long-sleeved top, high collar, loose pants with ankle wraps. Her shoulders remained hidden, the markings no doubt tucked beneath fabric and calm composure. Despite the heat, she seemed untouched by it.

But she wasn’t cold.

Not today.

“You remembered the turn from yesterday,” Rumi said softly to Mira, not quite smiling but letting warmth peek through her voice.

Mira blinked, surprised. “Oh—uh, yeah. I practiced it last night.”

Rumi gave a small nod. “It shows.”

Zoey fumbled with her water bottle cap and rolled her eyes. “If I die halfway through this routine, at least write me a decent eulogy.”

“You won’t die,” Rumi said. “Just breathe in the chorus. You rush ahead there.”

Zoey froze. “Wait—you were watching me?”

“Of course I was,” Rumi said with a shrug, and for a moment her eyes crinkled at the corners. “I like the way you move your hands. Very expressive.”

Zoey flushed. Mira shot her a knowing glance. “Careful,” she said, grinning. “She’s being nice. This might be a trap.”

“Shut up,” Zoey muttered, beaming anyway.

The music began.

It was a complicated piece—jagged tempo, syncopated transitions, and fast footwork layered into shifting formations. Sweat gathered quickly. The room pulsed with movement.

Mira found the rhythm early, her movements sharp and deliberate. She thrived in choreography like this—angular and explosive, every beat a new kick of energy. She laughed at her own stumbles, recovered fast, and kept rolling.

Zoey, less sure but determined, fell into the flow. She missed a step at first, then caught it on the next loop, breath uneven but smile wide. Her style was instinctive, light-footed, a little behind the beat—but catching up like it meant something.

Rumi danced like she always did: all in. Clean, fierce, and impossibly fluid. Like the music came from inside her instead of from speakers. Each motion carried weight—grace forged in heat and hours, but alive, not mechanical. Emotion swelled behind her sharp turns, behind her lyrical spins.

They weren’t three dancers anymore.

They were a triangle.

A forming constellation.

Off to the side, Celine stood next to Zoey’s mother, observing with arms folded, her shawl draped loosely over one shoulder, tablet clutched in one hand like a conductor’s score.

They ended together, knees bent, arms spread. Breath sharp in lungs.

Mira laughed. “That was insane.”

Zoey flopped to her knees. “I am sweating through my eyelashes.”

Rumi didn’t even seem winded. She walked over, offered Zoey a bottle of water wordlessly. Then turned to Mira and said, “Your tempo’s stronger when you lean left on the turn. It grounds you.”

Mira raised a brow. “Are you secretly a coach?”

Rumi tilted her head. “No. I just pay attention.”

Zoey took a deep gulp and muttered, “Are you also made of magic?”

“She’s not magic,” Mira said. “She’s a machine.”

“A very kind machine,” Rumi offered.

The girls laughed.

Celine stepped forward at last, her eyes calm and calculating. “Mira,” she said, finally looking up from her tablet. “You continue to surprise me. That middle section—you were in it. That’s a good sign. Use that.”

Mira flushed. “Thanks.”

“Zoey, you’re finding your timing. Your transitions are improving. Don’t second guess yourself—you have instinct. Trust it.”

Zoey straightened, grinning. “I think my lungs left my body, but thanks.”

Celine’s tone stayed warm, supportive. Real.

Then she turned to Rumi.

She didn’t lift her head fully. Her eyes stayed locked on the screen. Her voice went cool and distant, almost offhanded. “Good work.”

No specifics. No smile. No eye contact.

Just a checked box.

Rumi didn’t flinch, but she nodded once and stepped away, heading toward the towel rack near the window.

Zoey watched her go, confusion touching her brow. She leaned toward Mira. “Did that feel off?”

Mira narrowed her eyes, watching Celine flip to a new screen on the tablet. “Like she wants us to shine, but not her.”

“But why?” Zoey asked. “She’s, like… unreal.”

Mira didn’t answer.

Across the room, Rumi stood alone, towel pressed to the back of her neck. For a moment, her reflection in the mirror met theirs.

She smiled.

Small.

But real.

🦋

The dance session had ended with sweat-streaked smiles, sore legs, and a rush of laughter that echoed off the studio walls. They were all still catching their breath when Celine raised a hand, signaling the transition.

“Break’s over,” she said gently. “Let’s move into vocals. No mics today. Just your voices, raw and real.”

The music had stopped, but something lingered — like static after lightning.

Rumi sat on the floor cross-legged, twisting her braid between her fingers, still breathing easily. Not even a sheen of sweat on her skin. Mira plopped down beside her, hair damp, face flushed, but bright-eyed. Zoey paced a little, bouncing in her shoes, nervous energy pulsing through her limbs.

“Okay,” Celine said, swiping on her tablet, then glancing up. “We’re going to work through the second track. Mira, you open with the first two lines. Zoey, take the quick-fire section right after. Rumi—high harmony on the bridge.”

Zoey’s head whipped around. “Wait—me? The fast part?”

Celine offered a small smile. “You’re the one with bounce in your rhythm. Let’s put that fire to use.”

Zoey groaned, but half-smiled. “Okay… no pressure.”

“Just the right kind,” Mira muttered with a grin.

The track began on the studio’s speakers — stripped down. No vocals, just a clean instrumental line: keys, soft drums, the flick of a string synth beneath it all.

Mira didn’t wait for nerves.

She opened her mouth, and her voice cut through the air like a blade wrapped in velvet. No frills. No hesitation. Clear and unshakeable, as if each note came with a reason behind it. No-showboating. Just truth.

“Hearts don’t wait for perfect timing,
They beat through thunder, storm, and flame—”

Zoey stepped in, fumbling the first word a little but catching herself in the rhythm like someone vaulting onto a moving train.

“Fast track, no map, still I’m running—
Catching starlight, calling names—”

Her voice had edge. Not Mira’s weight, but there was a spark to it — a rapid-fire intensity that made her stumble once, then correct mid-line with a breathless laugh.

Rumi, listening quietly, joined in just as the bridge opened. No announcement, no posture — her voice rose in perfect harmony above the others, smooth as silk and tinged with something mournful. She made no effort to draw attention, but the way her notes slid between Mira’s grounded tone and Zoey’s spark was effortless, like stitching light into air.

The last note died in the air like a final spark.

Zoey dropped to her knees, panting, half-laughing. Mira ran a towel across her neck and leaned against the mirrored wall, sweat gleaming at her temples. Rumi sat cross-legged again, humming the last harmony under her breath, like she wasn’t quite ready to let it go.

No one spoke at first. Their hearts were still racing—not from nerves, but from exhilaration. They were starting to move like a unit. Voices meshing. Timing clicking. Even Zoey had hit the fast part this time, landing every line like it belonged to her.

Celine tapped something on her tablet, eyes narrowed with focus. The studio’s speakers dimmed into silence.

Zoey flopped onto her back and grinned up at the ceiling. “Okay, that—was hard. But I didn’t die. So yay.”

Mira tossed her a water bottle. “Yet.”

Rumi glanced between them and smiled — not wide, but warm. “It’s starting to sound like something real.”

Zoey lifted her head and grinned at her. “Thanks. I was terrified I’d trip over the fast part again.”

“You didn’t.” Rumi’s tone was even, but the compliment was genuine. “It’s yours now.”

Before anyone could reply, a sharp buzz sliced through the room. Celine’s phone, resting on the windowsill, lit up and vibrated hard enough to rattle against the wood.

She turned her head, expression flickering just enough to show it mattered. Her hand reached out, fast, and lifted the phone.

One glance at the screen.

She sighed, quietly.

“Zoey,” she said calmly, holding the phone toward her. “It’s your father.”

Zoey froze.

Her entire body stiffened, like she’d been called out in front of a stadium.

She sat up slowly, wiping her hands on her leggings before reaching for the phone. Her fingers curled around the device with reluctant precision.

“Dad?”

The voice on the other end was loud enough that even Mira, a few feet away, could make out the tone — sharp, unmistakably male, clipped with restrained frustration.

“Zoey. What the hell is going on over there?”

Zoey blinked. “What?”

“I just got told by your mother that you’re being recruited for some Korean idol program? That you’re staying?”

There was a pause.

Mira raised an eyebrow. Rumi stayed silent, spine straightening slightly.

Zoey’s voice dropped. “I… yeah. A label’s interested. It’s not official or anything, it’s just—training.”

“You’re sixteen,” he snapped. “You’re still in school. You live in California. You don’t just get to—what, move to Korea and play pop star?”

Zoey flinched. “I’m not playing.”

Her father’s breath came through the line, sharp. “Your mother has no right to make this decision alone. I have custody.”

Rumi stood quietly, muscles tight like piano wire.

Zoey’s knuckles whitened around the phone. “I didn’t say I’d stay. We’re just—exploring options. It’s a good opportunity.”

“You’re not staying,” he said, final. “I expect you on a plane home at the end of the week. This is a vacation, not a life.”

A beat of silence.

Celine moved forward, her hand gentle on Zoey’s shoulder as she reached for the phone. Zoey handed it off like it burned.

Celine’s voice dropped into a calm, assertive register — one she didn’t use with the girls.

“Mr. Hayes. My name is Celine. I’m the director here at the Sunlight Sister Foundation. I understand your concerns, and I want to assure you — nothing has been decided yet. Your daughter is extraordinary, and we’re simply giving her the space to explore her talents.”

There was a pause on the line. A muffled sound — possibly an objection.

Celine continued. “You are, of course, welcome to visit. See our facilities, meet the team. Speak with us in person before any decisions are made. We believe that nothing is more important than a child’s well-being. We want what’s best for her.”

She listened again, nodding once, and finally ended with, “I’ll forward all official materials, contracts, and program outlines to your email. Thank you for taking the time.”

Click.

The call ended.

Celine placed the phone down with care. She looked toward Zoey.

“He’ll need time,” she said gently. “But he’s not the kind to yell without thinking. That’s something.”

Zoey let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s… always been our way.”

Her mother, standing by the door, stepped forward now. “You know I’d be happy if you stayed here, Zoey.”

Zoey looked between them. “I know.”

And then quieter, “It’s just hard. One world always wants to erase the other.”

Mira stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder. “So maybe it’s time we make our own.”

Rumi didn’t speak, but she smiled softly, like she agreed.

Outside, the wind picked up.

Inside, the tension began to fall away.

But the choice was still there.

Waiting.

🦋

The week passed in a blur of motion and music — choreography drills, harmony practice, tight schedules layered over shared meals, sore muscles, laughter, and a growing sense that something real was beginning to form between them.

Zoey had barely had time to breathe before her father arrived in person.

He came sharp-suited and jet-lagged, stepping through the gates of the Sunlight Sister Foundation like a man inspecting a battlefield. His eyes scanned everything: the facility, the studio floors, the dorm wings, the academics program, the private tutors on staff. He asked polite but pointed questions. He wasn’t angry—just a man used to being in control of every variable, and his daughter had thrown him into one he hadn’t calculated.

Zoey didn’t say much while he toured. She just watched him, arms crossed, heart low and steady like it was bracing for impact.

But to everyone’s surprise — especially Zoey’s — he didn’t protest. Not exactly.

After a private conversation with Celine that lasted nearly an hour, he found Zoey alone by the koi pond in the garden courtyard and sat beside her. Silent at first.

“You’re happy here?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He didn’t argue. Just nodded once, like something inside him had settled.

“You still finish school,” he said. “That’s non-negotiable. And if this whole thing doesn’t work out — pop careers, stardom, whatever — I want it in writing that college is paid for. In the States or here. I don’t care where. I just want you to have a net.”

Zoey had expected a lecture. A no. Maybe even a fight.

But a net?

She blinked fast. Her throat closed. And then—something cracked.

She laughed. Or cried. Or both. The sound escaped her before she could stop it — messy, gasping, hiccuping.

“I can do that,” she managed. “I can—yeah, that’s fine, I can—”

Before she could finish, Rumi stepped into view. She hadn’t been there a moment ago — or maybe she had, just silent like always.

And then she did something unexpected.

She stepped forward and, a little awkwardly, wrapped her arms around Zoey. The hug was stiff at first — uncertain, like Rumi had never done it before — but when Zoey melted forward, arms curling tight around her back, Rumi relaxed. Just a little.

Mira appeared behind them with a dramatic sigh. “Oh my god, don’t leave me out.”

She slotted herself into the hug like she belonged there, forehead bumping lightly against Zoey’s shoulder, arms squeezing warm and sure.

For a breathless moment, Zoey felt… whole.

Her eyes were wet again, but she didn’t care. These two — odd, brilliant, fierce — they smelled like citrus and sweat and soft fabric. And belonging.

“Okay,” she sniffed. “New topic before I cry my actual face off—bathhouse? Anyone?”

Mira didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Please. My legs are one cramp away from mutiny.”

Zoey turned, hopeful. “Rumi?”

Rumi tensed. It was so subtle, but the change ran through her like a wire pulled taut. She eased out of the hug in one practiced movement and took a step back.

“I can’t,” she said, voice careful. “But have fun.”

There was something in her eyes — something flickering, like a memory or a scar — but it vanished too fast to name.

Zoey didn’t push. “Okay,” she said gently. “Next time?”

Rumi offered a small, polite smile. “Sure.”

They didn’t believe it. Not really. But they didn’t ask again.

Celine arrived a few minutes later to check on them, tablet in hand, poised as always.

She was brilliant at this — offering feedback that landed warm and clear, noticing strengths and weaknesses without making anyone feel small. She even gave Rumi her notes, though they were often short, technical, almost cold. But she gave them, and Rumi always listened with perfect focus.

Still, there was a difference — one Zoey couldn’t quite unsee. Celine’s eyes lingered longer on Mira and Zoey. Her praise for them was warmer, richer, personal.

For Rumi, it was… procedural. Measured.

Like she was something being monitored. Not mentored.

But Rumi never complained. She nodded, thanked Celine, and always, always delivered. No matter what.

🦋

Steam drifted lazily through the air, wrapping the room in thick, soft heat. The scent of hinoki wood and minerals rose from the hot water, wrapping around Zoey and Mira as they sank down together with a deep, satisfied groan.

“Everything hurts,” Zoey moaned, sliding until just her nose peeked out from the water. “Literally everything.”

Mira’s laugh was more of a grunt. “No kidding. I think I pulled a soul muscle.”

Zoey blinked. “Is that a real thing?”

“It is now.”

They both cracked up, the laughter echoing off the tiled walls and breaking into soft ripples on the water’s surface.

“I didn’t even know I had half these muscles,” Mira added, stretching one arm lazily over the edge. “Why is choreography such a full-body event?”

“Because Celine wants us to be perfect,” Zoey said with mock bitterness, and then sighed. “But it’s worth it.”

She was quiet for a moment, cheeks flushed from heat, body sinking deeper into the water. “I haven’t really said it out loud but… I’m so happy I get to stay.”

Mira turned to look at her. “You hadn’t said it?”

Zoey shook her head, wet strands of hair clinging to her face. “No. I guess I didn’t want to jinx it. Or admit I actually wanted it—because I didn’t think I’d get a say. With my dad, it’s always like… he decides, and I follow.”

Mira just watched her.

Zoey drew a breath, her voice soft now. “But I want this. I want us. This crazy, maybe-magical idol thing. You. Rumi. Even Celine’s weird sharp hugs and perfect hair.”

Mira smiled—genuine and small. “I’m glad. You belong here.”

Zoey turned her head, meeting her eyes. “You hugged me too, remember?”

“Yeah.” Mira gave her a lazy nod. “You looked like you were gonna short-circuit from emotions. Thought I’d better help keep your circuits from frying.”

Zoey laughed, her eyes going glassy. “And Rumi… she hugged me too.”

“I saw,” Mira said. “Kind of amazing, right?”

“She was stiff at first, but then she… stayed. Like she didn’t want to, but she also didn’t want to not.”

“She’s not cold,” Mira said quietly. “She just has… layers. Thick ones.”

Zoey sighed, letting her head fall back against the warm edge of the bath. “I wanna crack those layers. Just enough so she knows we’ve got her back.”

“We’ll get there.” Mira’s voice was calm, but full of something steady. “Step one’s done.”

Zoey grinned. “Step two—drag her into the bathhouse.”

Mira snorted. “You wish. She bolted the second we said ‘bath’ like we were asking her to walk into fire.”

“She didn’t even make an excuse. Just said she can’t and dipped.”

“Something flickered in her eyes,” Mira said after a pause, voice a little lower. “Did you see that?”

Zoey nodded slowly. “Yeah. I thought I imagined it.”

They both sat in silence for a beat, steam curling around them, the soft drip of water echoing like a metronome.

“Next time,” Zoey said quietly. “We’ll get her to come.”

They truly believed it was only a matter of time.

They didn’t yet know—

Time wasn’t the issue.

Not with Rumi.

Not even close.

Chapter Text

Celine stood by the tall glass doors that opened onto the garden, eyes tracking the faint shimmer of dew on the distant hedgerow. The morning sun stretched across the floor in golden bars. Somewhere in the background, she could still hear the soft echoes of laughter—Zoey’s unmistakable bubbling joy, Mira’s sharper chuckles trailing after like sparks off flint.

They were good girls.

No, they were the right girls.

Sharp, bright, honest. They held nothing back, not their doubts, not their dreams. There was clarity in them. Clarity she had waited for—hoped for—for far too long.

They didn’t carry the shadow.

Not like Rumi.

Celine exhaled slowly. A part of her hated herself for the thought, but she couldn’t shake it. Not even now. Especially not now. She loved Rumi—of course she did—but it was a different kind of love. Resigned. Cautious. The kind of love that only grew under necessity and time. The kind you poured into something you couldn’t change but had to care for.

She’d raised Rumi with discipline, with structure, with expectations.

And never once—not once—had she felt ease with her the way she already did around Mira and Zoey.

But she had to be careful. Mira was too sharp-eyed. Zoey too emotionally tuned. They saw more than they should. Celine would have to soften, at least on the surface. Let Rumi have her place, even if it was only symbolic.

The sound of measured footsteps drew her attention. She didn’t turn immediately. She didn’t need to. Rumi always moved with that ghost-silent grace, more presence than noise.

“Training will begin next week,” Celine said, still facing the garden. “We start with the basics. Combat conditioning. They won’t realize it’s about demons yet.”

“Yes,” Rumi answered evenly. “They need to be prepared, so that they won’t be hurt.”

Celine turned. Rumi stood a few paces away, braid tight down her back, posture perfect. Her eyes, though—there was something soft behind them. Something open.

“They’ll need to be ready soon,” Celine said.

“They will be,” Rumi said. “They’re stronger than they know.”

Celine gave a short nod.

But Rumi didn’t leave.

Instead, she hesitated. Then, with uncharacteristic urgency in her voice, she said, “Celine… I think I should tell them. About me.”

Celine’s head snapped up.

“I think it’s time,” Rumi continued, stepping closer. “They feel right. I don’t think they’ll run. I don’t think they’ll turn away.”

“No.” Celine’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

“They like me,” Rumi said, stepping closer. “I feel it. I think—if I show them the patterns, explain—”

“You will not show them anything.” The air around Celine seemed to still.

“But—”

Celine’s hand cracked across Rumi’s cheek.

The slap rang sharp in the quiet hallway.

Rumi didn’t cry out. She barely blinked. But she recoiled half a step, stunned, the red blooming across her cheekbone like fire beneath glass skin.

Celine’s hand trembled for a second—just a second—before she clenched it into a fist at her side.

“You think feeling safe gives you permission to destroy it?” Her voice shook with tightly leashed fury. “To throw away the only chance we have because you want to feel known?”

“I am known,” Rumi said softly. “They see me. Maybe not all of me, but enough.”

“You don’t understand,” Celine snapped. “You show them those patterns, you tell them what you are, and it will undo everything. Everything.”

Rumi’s breath came in slow, trembling waves, but she didn’t break. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Maybe if they knew… they’d still stay.”

“They‘d run,” Celine growled. “And if they do, it’s over. The Honmoon weakens. The cycle fails. We all lose.”

Silence settled like ash.

Celine’s next words were cold and final. “When the Honmoon renews, and if you survive that night, the marks will vanish. Then—maybe—you’ll have something to show. Until then, no one knows. No one sees. Do you understand?”

Rumi didn’t answer.

Her cheek still burned. Her voice had gone.

She just gave the smallest of nods. Enough for Celine to turn and walk away.

But as she stood alone in that quiet hallway, Rumi blinked once, slowly. Her fingers touched her cheek, and her eyes closed for a moment.

She wouldn’t forget this.

Not the words.

Not the feeling.

Not the sharp truth that no matter how close the girls came—she would always have to stay hidden.

🦋

The great pine tree at the edge of the resort grounds had stood for centuries—its trunk thick with time, bark rough like old scars. Rumi knew each foothold by memory. She climbed silently, fingers curling into the grooves, legs moving in practiced rhythm. The sky was starting to shift—blush pinks bleeding into the deeper violet of evening.

Higher.

She needed higher.

Higher than the voices. Higher than the stone hallways and cold stares. Higher than the weight she couldn’t put down.

When she reached her favorite perch—one of the tallest, thickest branches just below the canopy—she swung herself around and leaned back against the trunk, eyes turned skyward. Her legs dangled freely into the breeze, her long braid swaying beside them, brushing the pine needles.

It was quiet up here.

And from this height, the world almost looked kind.

But her cheek still stung, and worse than the ache was the echo of Celine’s voice. Cold. Flat. Final.

'If you survive that night…'

As if it was a given that she might not. As if the patterns that lived under her skin were a countdown, not a calling.

Her hands curled loosely in her lap.

She thought of Zoey’s bright laughter, how easily she hugged, how she leaned into people like they were gravity itself. She thought of Mira—watchful, cutting, already so quick to notice the cracks.

They were good girls.

They were already her girls.

And yet, she was supposed to hold them away like porcelain. Look, but don’t touch. Teach, but don’t belong. Laugh, but not too loud. Fight, but don’t let them see the bleeding.

It was so damn cruel.

To have found something worth staying for—something that felt like home—and be told to remain at arm’s length forever. To never be seen.

Never be known.

She hadn’t even felt the tears before they slid free. But they fell anyway, fast and quiet. Salted her lips before she could catch her breath. She wiped at her face quickly, angrily, but it didn’t help. Her ribs felt too tight, like her whole chest was wrapped in thorns.

She couldn’t tell them.

But she could protect them.

She could make sure that Mira and Zoey never had to face what she had alone. That they would never feel the way she felt right now—unwanted, wrong.

Maybe Celine was right.

Maybe the truth would only break what they were starting to build.

But still—Rumi wanted more.

And maybe that want was dangerous.

She took a long, shuddering breath. The wind in the canopy was softer than the wind on the ground. It touched her gently, as if the tree itself knew it was holding her pain.

She tilted her head up toward the stars, blinking hard.

'Conceal, not feel. That’s the deal, isn’t it?'

She would lead them. She would help them grow strong enough to survive—even win. She’d make sure they had every chance she didn’t.

And no one would see her falter.

Not again.

Not ever.

Even if it ripped her apart.

🦋

The kitchen glowed in amber light, the kind that made steam curl golden off bowls of miso and rice. The air was heavy with comfort—ginger, garlic, and toasted sesame oil. Mira sat tucked into the long wooden table, her damp hair hanging loosely down her shoulders, still feeling the heat of the bathhouse in her skin. Zoey was beside her, feet bare, cross-legged on the bench, poking happily at a square of tofu glazed in something sweet and spicy.

“I can feel every single muscle,” Zoey groaned with a grin, stretching one leg beneath the table until her toes nudged Mira’s shin. “Like. Every. One.”

“You should’ve stretched longer in the shower,” Mira said, chewing on a piece of pickled radish. “That’s what the pros do.”

Zoey snorted. “Okay, calm down, little legend.”

They laughed softly, the kind of easy warmth that had taken only a few days to grow between them—real, earned, unexpected. Mira didn’t think she would’ve liked someone like Zoey, back home. But here, Zoey was… joy. A spark in all this strangeness.

The door creaked.

Rumi walked in quietly.

And something shifted—not in the room exactly, but in Mira’s chest. Like a note struck wrong in a familiar song.

She wasn’t sure what gave it away. Rumi moved with her usual quiet poise, steps careful, her long braid damp and neat. She wore a loose sweater pulled to her wrists, a soft grey that almost swallowed her. But her face—there was something in her face.

Not the kind of tiredness that came from training. It was in her eyes. That glossy, too-bright sheen that said she’d been crying, even if the tears were gone.

Mira frowned, instinct prickling at the back of her neck.

“Hey, Rumi,” Zoey said lightly, cheerful. “We saved you the good tofu. Mira tried to claim it but I protected it with my life.”

Rumi gave a small smile. “Thank you.”

Her voice was low. Polite. Measured. She sat down across from them, posture perfect, hands folded in her lap before she even reached for her chopsticks.

Celine entered not long after, shawl wrapped around her shoulders like a practiced touch of elegance. She looked relaxed, in control, her tablet tucked under her arm. She surveyed the table with the faintest smile.

“I hope you’re all enjoying the food,” she said smoothly, before pouring herself tea. “This house is a little quiet without the parents hovering, isn’t it?”

“They were kinda intense,” Zoey muttered into her tea. “Especially my dad.”

“Hmm,” Celine hummed. “But he came around.”

Mira barely heard them. Her eyes flicked back to Rumi.

There was a tension there—not in her words, but in the way she held herself. Too carefully. As if she were afraid something inside her might crack. Mira looked closer. Her cheek, partially shadowed by her hair, looked a little pinker than usual. Not swollen. Not bruised. Just off.

But it was her eyes that told the real story.

Red. Rimmed with exhaustion. Or grief. Or something worse.

Mira felt her stomach twist.

The meal wore on. Conversation circled around the new training schedule. Celine, as always, offered feedback and encouragement, even some rare warmth. She smiled at Zoey’s joke. She asked Mira about her preferred workout routine back home.

But she never once addressed Rumi directly.

Mira’s discomfort grew. She glanced across the table—Zoey had noticed too. Her brows were drawn slightly, her mouth tight in a frown she didn’t voice.

Then, as plates were cleared and the kettle began to hiss softly on the stove, Celine rose from her seat.

“Next week,” she said, brushing her hands together, “we’ll begin the next phase of your training. Flexibility. Strength. Endurance. We’ve focused on performance. Now we build what lasts.”

Zoey nodded, wiping her hands on a napkin. “Sounds intense.”

“You’ll adjust quickly. I have no doubt.”

Celine’s voice was smooth, but Mira could hear the edge of purpose beneath it.

And then—almost as if by habit—Celine stepped behind Rumi and reached out to place a hand gently on her shoulder.

It was meant to be reassuring. Familiar.

Rumi flinched.

It wasn’t violent. But it was sharp. A whole-body freeze, shoulders pulled tight, chin dipping slightly—as if she were bracing for something worse than touch.

Mira’s chest went cold.

She didn’t move. No one did. The kettle whined softly in the background.

Rumi stood a second later, head bowed.

“Excuse me,” she said, voice like paper. “I’m tired. I think I’ll rest early.”

She walked out of the room before anyone could say a word.

Zoey stared after her. Mira didn’t look away.

Celine adjusted her shawl with a soft sigh.

“She’s been… skittish lately,” she said lightly, as if offering a small apology. “Don’t worry. It’s normal for her.”

Mira didn’t answer.

But nothing about this felt normal.

And as the warmth of the evening slipped away like the last of the bathhouse steam, something heavy settled in her chest.

🦋

The rain came without warning.

It swept down the mountain in veils, sharp and wind-lashed, as if the world had taken one long breath and exhaled nothing but sorrow.

Rumi felt it before she saw it.

A low, unnatural pulse rolled through the Honmoon—like a wrong note struck in the bones of the world. She flinched. It wasn’t subtle this time. It tore down her spine like a lash.

She was still wearing her house clothes. Her braid was barely tied. She hadn’t slept in two nights, maybe three. The sting of Celine’s slap hadn’t fully faded, and the ache in her shoulder from training still throbbed in tandem with her heart.

But there was no time.

No permission to rest.

The pulse hit like a fist.

She staggered.

The world lurched.

The Honmoon screamed through her bones—and she was moving before her breath returned.

No shoes. No coat. Her sweater flapped against her sides, soaked within minutes. Her braid loosened with each bounding step down the slope, but she didn’t slow. Couldn’t.

Another breach.

Closer than it should be. Too close.

The air crackled as she ran into the trees, leaves whipping past her skin like warning slaps. The mountain trail blurred under her feet. Thunder rolled above, low and long, and the sky split open in a violent downpour.

And then—
They came.

Ripping through the seams of reality like ink spilled into water. The demons slithered out of the rift in ones and twos, then by the dozen. Misshapen beasts—spines like coral, mouths like wounds, eyes that didn’t blink. Their limbs clicked with hunger. Their voices were the sound of wet teeth.

Rumi didn’t stop.

She couldn’t stop.

She exhaled once, sharp and clean—and called it.

Her sword.

From the Honmoon itself, it answered.

A crack of blue light burst from her palm, weaving upward in a curl of threads—twisting, glowing, solidifying in the shape of a blade. As if carved from pure moonlight, the sword hissed into being, long and balanced. Elegant. Magical. Made only for her.

She gripped it tight.

Then lunged.

Steel met shadow.

The first demon crumpled with a howl, black sludge exploding into rain. The second swiped low—she ducked, turned, drove the sword into its belly and twisted. Bones cracked. Another went down. And another.

But they kept coming.

She pivoted, slid, leapt back, spun. Rain soaked her hair. Mud caked her ankles. Her sweater tore, a claw catching her shoulder and slicing clean through cloth and skin. She grunted, teeth clenched, breath harsh—but still moving.

This was her dance. This was what she was made for.

A blur of blue and silver, light and fury.

And yet—
Her mind wasn’t right.

Her heart wasn’t right.

She could see herself reflected in the demons. The curve of their backs. The markings. Their glowing veins. The same shapes that wrapped around her own shoulders, burned into her skin.

She hesitated.

And that hesitation nearly killed her.

A massive brute—larger than the rest—barreled through the clearing, smashing aside trees like matchsticks. She barely turned in time. Its fist struck her side, sending her flying. She hit the ground hard, sliding through mud and leaves, pain spiking through her ribs.

Her sword flickered.

She gasped. Rain hit her face. The demon roared again, charging.

And still—all she could think of were their faces.
Zoey. Mira. Their warmth. Their smiles.
The hug.
The bathhouse.
The way they’d begun to trust her. The way she wanted to deserve it.

A sob tore through her lips. She dragged herself to her knees. Blood smeared across her hand, her fingers trembling.

I’m like them, she thought, her chest heaving. I’m like the monsters.

The demon lunged again.

And something snapped.

No—not snapped. Shattered.

She screamed.

A raw, aching scream ripped from her lungs—part grief, part rage, part longing so deep it had no name. It echoed through the trees, bounced off the rocks, reached the clouds.

The Honmoon answered.

It surged through her veins. Through the sword. Through the wound at her side. A roar of blue fire erupted along the blade’s edge. She stood—wounded, soaked, burning—and charged.

She met the beast head-on.

Their clash shook the clearing.

She ducked the swing. Slid under its reach. Slammed her sword upward into the base of its jaw—blue light exploding as the blade drove through bone and out the top of its skull.

The monster shrieked—then crumbled into ash.

Rumi stood alone.

Breathing heavy.

Shaking.

Rain fell harder, drowning the sounds of battle now over.

The sword dissolved in her hand. Threads of light fluttered upward like fireflies and vanished into the dark.

She dropped to her knees.

The ache in her ribs was nothing compared to the crack in her heart. She cried then—not out of pain, but exhaustion. Frustration. Isolation.

Tears mixed with rainwater on her cheeks.

She tilted her head up and screamed again—just once—into the night sky. A sound too big for one person. A sound meant for the Honmoon, or the gods who had abandoned her, or the pieces of herself that she’d buried just to keep going.

The world rippled.

The trees quieted.

And the Honmoon pulsed once more—dimly now, as if retreating, as if mourning with her.

She was still alive.

But she felt less human than ever.

Chapter Text

It was late.

The kitchen lights hummed low overhead, casting warm halos across the old wooden floors. The storm hadn’t broken yet, but the air had that expectant pressure—thick, clinging. Like breath held too long.

Zoey leaned against the kitchen counter, her hair damp from air, a convenience store mochi in her hand, half-bitten and forgotten. She wasn’t even sure why she came down. Just… restlessness.

Mira stood nearby, barefoot and wrapped in a long cardigan, holding a cold barley tea. She’d made a quiet circuit through the house, checked the windows out of habit, then joined Zoey without words. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It just was.

They hadn’t really said much since dinner.

Rumi had barely been there. She sat, silent and composed, picking at her food with the grace of someone performing a scene. Her eyes were… red. Not swollen or streaming, just wrong. Dimmed like glass in shadow. Mira had noticed it. Zoey had too. And that smile—small and so very distant—still lingered in Mira’s mind like something unfinished.

Neither of them had brought it up.

Yet.

Zoey took another bite of mochi, chewed slowly. “Think she’s out again?” she asked, finally.

Mira didn’t respond at first. She stared into her tea, then nodded. “I felt the Honmoon shift. Just a little. A pull. Like something reached out from it.”

“She never gets a break,” Zoey said softly. “And I don’t think she even expects one.”

The storm scratched gently at the windows, like a warning dressed in silk.

“She’s been… weird since we came back,” Mira continued, voice flat. “She flinched when Celine touched her. Did you see that?”

Zoey nodded, slowly. “I thought I imagined it.”

“No.” Mira looked toward the hallway, where Rumi’s room sat dark. “It was real. She jumped.”

Zoey shifted on her feet. “Do you think something’s… I don’t know. Wrong wrong?”

Mira didn’t answer right away. Then, very quietly: “I don’t want to think what I’m thinking.”

They stood in that suspended space between instinct and dread, neither ready to say aloud what they feared, because once spoken it would be real.

The Honmoon rippled.

Not gently. Not like the first pulse.

This time it roared.

A blast of something too old to name and too sharp to ignore cut through them like a blade honed on emotion. Not heat. Something raw. Something real.

It hurt.

Zoey dropped her mochi. It hit the floor with a dull thud and rolled under the counter.

Her legs buckled beneath her before she realized what was happening, her hands catching the edge of the counter as her knees slammed the floor. Her chest heaved once—twice—and then stopped entirely.

Mira crumpled silently beside her, barley tea slipping from her grasp and shattering in a muted splash of glass and gold. Her breath hitched like she’d been hit in the solar plexus. One hand clutched at her shirt over her heart. The other braced her on the tiles as she fought against the instinct to scream.

Neither of them made a sound.

They couldn’t.

Their mouths opened. Their bodies shook. Their bones felt wrong in their skin.

The force of it dropped them—crushed them—into silence.

As soon as it began—

It was over.

Just like that.

Gone.

The house was still.

The storm was still waiting outside, as if watching.

Zoey was the first to move. Barely. She leaned back against the cabinets and pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “What…” Her voice came out cracked. “What the fuck was that?”

Mira sat beside her, panting quietly, eyes wide and unfocused. “I—I don’t know. That wasn’t… That wasn’t normal.”

“It felt like something break,” Zoey whispered.

Mira’s heart stuttered.

She didn’t say it—but she knew. This wasn’t just another fight.

This was something worse.

A long moment passed as they sat there, dazed and barely tethered to the moment.

Then something clicked—between them, unspoken.

They scrambled to their feet.

No plan.

No coordination.

They just moved—legs still weak, hands still shaking.

Towards the door.

Towards the storm.

Towards her.

Zoey and Mira barely made it three steps toward the front door when a shape moved in from the shadows—silent, poised, waiting.

Celine.

She stepped into their path like a figure carved from shadow and silk, her shawl wound tight around her arms, her presence a cold wall of restraint.

“You’re not going out there,” she said calmly.

Zoey, still breathless, didn’t stop. “Something’s wrong. We felt it.”

Celine’s expression didn’t flicker. “It’s not save.”

Mira didn’t stop either. “She’s alone out there, Celine.”

“She always is,” Celine replied without apology. “And she always comes back.”

Zoey’s voice cracked. “But she’s—she’s not okay. I know it. Something ripped through us. Through the Honmoon.”

“She’s strong,” Celine said, eyes narrowing slightly. “She’ll be back before dawn.”

Mira’s jaw tightened. Her fists clenched at her sides. “Move.”

Celine’s voice lowered. “Mira—”

“I’m serious.” Mira took one more step forward. “If you don’t let us out, I’ll make you.”

Celine didn’t flinch. Her hands stayed folded in front of her. “You are not ready for what’s outside. You don’t even understand what you felt.”

“Then explain it,” Zoey said, voice rising, panic replacing her breath. “Don’t just tell us to sit here like everything’s normal!”

“It’s raining,” Celine replied, tone flat. “The mountain’s big. And she’ll find her way back. She always does.”

Mira’s entire body was coiled. “That’s not good enough.”

But before she could push past Celine, the front door creaked—then burst open with a gust of wind sharp enough to cut.

Rumi stood in the threshold.

No shoes.

No coat.

Hair hanging limp down her back, braid unraveled.

Blood ran down her temple and dripped from her fingertips. Her shirt stuck to her skin in wet patches of red and rain, the storm behind her framing her silhouette in chaos. Her breathing came in short, uneven gasps. She looked like she might fall apart where she stood.

Her eyes were empty.

Not broken. Just gone.

Like she’d left pieces of herself in the rain and wasn’t sure if she wanted them back.

Mira took a step toward her, hand out. “Rumi—”

But Rumi’s gaze barely registered her. She tried to step past Celine like they weren’t even there, like her body was on rails, only meant to move forward.

Celine caught her by the shoulder.

“You’re dripping all over the floor,” she said softly.

Rumi stopped. Trembled.

“I’ll stitch you up,” Celine added.

Rumi’s lips parted as if she might say something, but nothing came out. Just a low breath, shuddered and small. Her body sagged slightly under Celine’s hand.

Neither Mira nor Zoey moved.

The hallway was still—except for the dripping. The slow, rhythmic pat of rainwater and blood hitting the floorboards.

It didn’t sound like someone who’d won a fight.

It sounded like someone who barely made it home.

🦋

The rain hammered the estate walls like it wanted in, echoing in the halls as Celine led Rumi toward the infirmary.

Mira and Zoey followed without speaking, the air between them wound tight. Their footsteps were hushed, but their hearts beat loudly—worry and something else knotting in their chests.

Rumi stumbled once, breath ragged, and Celine caught her with surprising speed. Her grip looked firm. Protective. But when Rumi gave a sharp hiss of pain, Mira’s eyes narrowed. That hand—meant to steady—dug in too tightly, right into the bruised side.

Celine’s voice floated back toward them, pleasant and composed.

“She pushed herself too hard again,” she said, as if she were merely explaining a child’s skinned knee. “She always does that, doesn’t she?”

No one replied.

Inside the infirmary, the light was cold and too bright. White sheets. Steel cabinets. Clean lines and silence—except for the labored rasp of Rumi’s breath.

“Rumi, lie down here, sweet girl,” Celine coaxed, gesturing toward the bed. She sounded kind. She even smiled.

But when Rumi didn’t respond quickly enough, Celine’s guiding hand let go—not gently. Rumi crumpled onto the mattress, her legs giving out fully this time.

Mira caught her before she hit the floor again, gritting her teeth. “You could’ve—”

“She needs to learn to move faster when she’s injured,” Celine said, gently brushing a damp strand of Rumi’s hair back from her temple. Her touch looked maternal. “She’s stronger than she thinks.”

Rumi’s eyes were fluttering from exhaustion, but her jaw clenched tight.

Zoey moved to her side, grabbing her hand again—still cold, still trembling. But this time, Rumi squeezed back even harder.

“She’s not letting go,” Zoey whispered, frightened by it.

“She’s in shock,” Celine said softly, already preparing her tools. She spoke like she was used to this. As if it was nothing new. “She just needs a steady hand.”

Celine peeled Rumi’s wet sweater back with quiet deliberation, tugging the fabric away from the wounded shoulder. Her hand lingered longer than it needed to, angling the cloth just so—shielding something from view. Then, with a too-sweet smile: “I’ll take it from here. Please, don’t crowd her.”

“She’s our friend,” Mira said flatly. “We’re staying.”

Celine gave a soft laugh, as though amused by how adorable that was.

“As you wish,” she said. Then: “Zoey, keep her facing you. She trusts you. Mira, maybe look away.”

Mira didn’t move.

Celine placed a hand at Rumi’s ribs, angling her, and Rumi gasped in pain. Not because of the injury—because of the pressure. The fingers dug in.

“Careful,” Zoey said sharply. “She’s already hurt—”

“She’ll be fine, darling. I just need her to lay a certain way.”

She turned back to Rumi and leaned down to her ear, her voice a hush only the closest could hear: “Don’t move. Don’t say anything.”

Then she threaded the needle.

Rumi flinched violently at the first prick. It was too deep—Mira saw the way her back arched instinctively, trying to recoil. But Celine’s other hand pressed down against her spine, keeping her still.

“There we go,” she cooed. “You’re doing so well, Rumi.”

Her tone was gentle. Her stitches were not.

Another puncture. Another hiss of pain from Rumi, her eyes squeezed shut, her free hand clawing weakly at the sheet. Zoey reached out and caught it, cradling it between both of hers.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered.

“I know it looks harsh,” Celine said, pausing only to blot the blood before starting again. “But healing takes a bit of pain sometimes, doesn’t it?”

She smiled as if this were normal. As if she hadn’t just rammed the needle in too far again.

Mira said nothing. But her eyes flicked down to the bruising beneath Rumi’s ribs. Deep purple. Jagged around the edges. Wrong. She’d seen enough bruises to know impact from pressure. This one didn’t look like a hit from a demon.

Then, Celine reached for the wrap.

“This will help,” she said sweetly, covering the wound—but Mira saw how precisely she draped the cloth. Not just to hide the stitches. To cover something else.

She leaned close to Rumi again, lips brushing just beside her ear. Mira barely caught it:

“They can’t see it.”

Rumi gave a barely perceptible nod, eyes cloudy. She didn’t fight it.

But Mira had heard.

And her heart began to race.

Zoey was still focused on Rumi’s hand, still holding on. “Her fingers are freezing,” she murmured, more to herself. “Why is she still so cold?”

Celine stood and peeled off the gloves like the scene was done. “Shock,” she said again. “The body just needs time. She’ll recover. You can stay a while longer if it makes you feel better.”

She smiled at them again—serene, gentle, motherly.

But Mira was no longer seeing the smile.

She was watching the way Rumi’s eyes refused to close, the way her shoulders tensed under the blanket, and how she was trying—fighting—to stay awake, even now.

And she was starting to realize why.

🦋

Mira sat beside her, brows furrowed, one hand lightly resting on the edge of the mattress. Zoey crouched at Rumi’s side, still holding onto her hand, rubbing warmth into fingers that hadn’t stopped trembling.

Neither of them really knew what to say. But they stayed close, instinctively making themselves a wall between Rumi and the world.

Then Celine reappeared, smooth and composed, a neatly folded set of clothes tucked in her arms. A soft grey hoodie, sweatpants, fresh socks—nothing flashy. Simple and clean. Appropriate.

“She needs to change out of those wet things,” Celine said gently, approaching like nothing was amiss. “And she’s cold. Would you girls mind grabbing a few thick blankets from the linen cupboard? And tea, maybe—something hot. That would help.”

Her voice was syrup-sweet, coated with just enough urgency to make it sound like a caring request. But underneath it, something tugged, like a leash wrapped in velvet.

Zoey stood instantly. “I’ll make tea,” she said, eager to help. “Ginger maybe. Or peppermint. I’ll bring sugar too, in case.”

And then she was gone—light on her feet, footsteps echoing down the hallway.

Celine turned to Mira.

“Blankets?” she said softly. “They’re just two doors down. It’ll go faster if you help. The sooner she’s dry and warm, the better.”

Mira hesitated.

Her eyes flicked from Rumi—pale, still too pale—to Celine. Then back again. She didn’t want to leave. Not for a second. Her instincts screamed at her not to.

So she looked to Rumi herself.

“Is that okay?” Mira asked. “If I grab the blankets?”

There was a long pause. Rumi blinked slowly, eyes finding Mira’s. Her voice came quiet and hollow:

“…Yeah.”

She didn’t even nod. Just that single word, flat and exhausted.

Mira’s stomach twisted. Everything in her rebelled at walking away. But she forced herself to stand, to take a step back.

“I’ll be quick,” she said quietly, almost like a promise.

Then she turned and walked to the door. Not looking back. Not letting herself. If she looked back now, she’d never leave.

Celine smiled once Mira was gone—smiled like this was all under control. Like it had gone according to plan. She unfolded the clothes with practiced hands and laid them on the counter beside the bed.

“Let’s get you out of those wet things, shall we?” she murmured. “We don’t want you catching a fever now.”

Rumi didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But she didn’t resist either.

Behind her, the door clicked shut, leaving a silence so thick it rang in her ears.

The infirmary lights were too bright—white and humming, casting everything in a sterile glow that made Rumi’s skin look almost translucent.

Celine moved with calm efficiency, her expression measured, her touch… less so.

“Don’t make a fuss,” she murmured as she peeled the soaked fabric of Rumi’s sweater away from the bloodied shoulder. Her hands were fast, almost mechanical. Precise and clinical. But not kind. Not gentle.

Rumi bit her lip hard, trying to will her body to cooperate as her limbs twitched sluggishly under her own weight. Her back tensed as the fabric caught briefly on the crusted blood at her shoulder. She hissed—but didn’t flinch.

Celine didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Celine said, voice low, almost chiding. “You’re no good to anyone dead. You can’t die before the Honmoon is renewed.”

No warmth. No comfort. Just cold truth, pressed like salt into an open wound.

Rumi didn’t respond. Her mouth twitched, as if she was chewing on words she didn’t dare let out. Her eyes stayed locked on the wall. Silent. Present, but not here.

Celine moved swiftly, swapping the bloodied top with the clean hoodie, yanking the soft fabric down to hide the dark markings that spiderwebbed across Rumi’s shoulder blade—the patterns that burned like memory and warning both.

The hoodie slid down just as the infirmary door creaked open.

Mira stood at the threshold, holding two thick blankets bundled in her arms. Her eyes took in the room in a blink: Rumi hunched on the bed, freshly changed, her face pale and tight with exhaustion. Celine standing over her, smoothing the hoodie like she’d just tucked a child into bed.

The edges of something jagged curled in Mira’s gut.

Celine turned at the sound. “Ah, good. You were quick.”

But Mira wasn’t looking at her.

Her eyes were on Rumi. And Rumi—Rumi looked back at her, slow and quiet. Her voice was small when it came:

“Can I… stay with you? Just for the night?”

She didn’t say why. If she just didn’t like the infirmary or the cold cot. Or Celine.

But Mira didn’t care.

“Of course,” she said, without hesitation. “Yeah. You’re with us tonight.”

And just like that, something unclenched inside her. Some need to pull Rumi closer. Some instinct to not let her out of their sight again.

Footsteps padded down the hall, and then Zoey skidded into the doorway, cradling a tray with two mugs of steaming tea and a small pot of honey. “Peppermint and ginger,” she said brightly, then caught the atmosphere.

“Oh.”

Mira stood, placing one of the blankets around Rumi’s shoulders. “We’re taking her to our room,” she told Celine. It wasn’t a question. Not quite a statement either. But it was final.

Zoey blinked, then nodded quickly and stepped aside to hold the door.

Rumi moved slowly, like each step was an act of defiance against gravity—and pain. Mira took one side without asking. Zoey moved to the other.

They left together.

Celine watched them go, expression unreadable.

But as the door swung shut, the image she had so carefully arranged—the warm guardian, the composed caretaker—flickered.

Just for a second.

🦋

The storm still whispered against the windows, the rain a steady hush like breath drawn long and low. The girls’ room was quiet, the light from a single lamp glowing amber across the walls and their shadows.

Zoey led the way in, her arms full of blankets. Mira followed with Rumi at her side—one arm lightly bracing her, not pushing, not pulling, just… guiding.

The bed was already made, soft and wide and welcoming. It looked too big for just two. And exactly right for three.

Rumi barely managed the last few steps before her legs gave a small tremble.

“Here,” Mira said gently, helping her sit down at the edge. “We’ve got you.”

Zoey placed the extra blankets down and looked over. “Do you want us with you?” she asked softly. “We’re warm. And soft. Surprisingly good cuddlers.”

Mira gave a tiny grin despite herself. “It’s for body heat, obviously. Entirely practical.”

Rumi blinked up at them, her lashes still damp, her cheeks pale. But at the mention of cuddles, something in her expression shifted—uncertain, then longing, then quietly grateful.

She gave a small nod. “Yeah… I’d like that.”

So they moved carefully—Zoey first, slipping under the covers and curling close from one side, her head finding the pillow. Mira followed, settling in behind Rumi and wrapping an arm around her waist with a gentleness that said she understood what it meant to be trusted this much.

No more words. Just warmth. The quiet kind that filled all the hollow spaces.

Rumi lay between them, shoulders slowly uncoiling. Her body softened like it hadn’t in weeks—like sleep wasn’t the same terrifying thing it usually was. Her breath slowed. Her brow relaxed. And in the space of two minutes, she was gone.

Not fighting it. Not holding herself up. Just… safe.

Zoey reached over and gently brushed a bit of hair off her cheek, whispering, “She’s really out, huh?”

Mira nodded, her voice barely audible. “I think she needed this.”

They lay like that in silence, the three of them close under thick blankets, the outside storm far away now. Rumi didn’t stir. Not once.

And for the first time since arriving, since the Honmoon had rippled through their lives—
She looked like someone at peace.

🦋

Celine stood in the hallway, the door to the girls’ room closed now, quiet behind her. Only the storm remained—faint thunder like a heartbeat buried deep.

Her fingers flexed at her side.

She had seen it.

The hesitation in Mira’s eyes as she handed over the blankets. The flicker of mistrust, too raw to be hidden. Mira hadn’t wanted to leave Rumi alone with her.

It hadn’t mattered that she’d smiled. That she’d spoken with soft urgency. That she’d done all the things a proper guardian should do. Mira had still doubted her.

And Zoey… sharp in her own way, but softer. Easier to pull into warmth. Not like Mira, who watched everything and said nothing—yet carried truths like blades behind her back.

Celine exhaled, long and slow, her spine too stiff, her teeth too clenched.

It wasn’t good enough. Not anymore.

The charade was slipping. The line between mask and face bleeding at the edges.

She needed them—all three.

Not just for the vision. Not just for the mission. But for the Honmoon. Its old magic didn’t care about human laws or opinions. It required three hearts, bound in trust. In unity.

And it would not renew itself for a fractured trio.

Celine turned, walking slowly back down the corridor. Her heels silent against the floorboards, the candlelight catching in the sheen of her shawl.

She had raised Rumi out of necessity. Duty, not desire. She had fed her, clothed her, trained her—but never once let her close. Rumi was a tool. A contingency. A halfblood tethered to pain and a promise.

But Mira and Zoey?

They were hers. Chosen. Full of fire and unbroken promise. Whole, untainted by what slept under the mountain. Daughters in the way she’d always wanted—but never dared say aloud.

And now…

Now they doubted her. Because of her.

Because Rumi, fragile as she was broken, had taken root in their hearts. Because even bleeding and silent, that girl had found a way to belong.

Celine reached the window at the end of the hall and stared out into the storm, her reflection faint in the glass. The rain ran like veins across her face.

She would have to do better. Be better.

Play the role perfectly.

So that they would believe her when the time came. When the Hanmoon called for fire and song and blood. When it demanded their strength—and their unity.

Rumi was still necessary.

But Mira and Zoey?
They had to trust her.

Even if it meant pretending she could stomach what she had created.

Even if she hated every moment of it.

Chapter Text

Rumi lay quiet between them, her breath shallow and steady, finally asleep. Mira sat propped slightly on one elbow, watching the ceiling through the shadows, while Zoey curled toward them, the blankets tucked up to her chin.

Neither had spoken in a while, both too alert for sleep.

Then Zoey whispered, “She’s sixteen.”

Mira blinked. “Yeah. Same as us.”

Zoey exhaled shakily. “She fought whatever that was tonight. Alone. And came back bleeding.” Her voice cracked. “We don’t even know what happened. We just felt it. Like—like someone cracked the world open for a second.”

Mira turned her head, looking at Rumi’s sleeping face. “Yeah.”

“She shouldn’t be out there alone,” Zoey said, a little louder, like she was trying to convince herself as much as Mira. “It’s… it’s too much for one person. I don’t care how strong she is.”

“She never complains,” Mira murmured.

“Exactly!” Zoey’s voice caught. “It’s not normal. And we’ve known her what—two weeks? I barely know how she takes her tea, and now I’m watching her bleed in our bed because someone expects her to carry this whole… this whole thing?”

Mira didn’t answer at first. Then, softly, “You’re scared.”

Zoey gave a short laugh. “Of course I’m scared, Mira. Aren’t you? If we keep going with this—and we are, aren’t we?—then eventually we’re going to be out there too. Fighting whatever came through that rift. And what if you get hurt? What if Rumi does? What if I do?”

She sat up a little, pressing her hands into her lap to steady them. “It’s just—this is all too much. And we’re kids. We’re still in school. I’m not ready to be someone who fights demons at night and goes to math class in the morning. It’s not fair.”

Mira looked down at Rumi again. “She looked like she was going to fall apart when we found her.”

“I don’t think she would’ve let herself,” Zoey said. “Even if she did.”

Another silence stretched between them.

Then Mira whispered, “I don’t like how I feel about Celine.”

Zoey turned to look at her.

“I’ve been trying to ignore it, but…” Mira’s eyes were dark in the low light. “Tonight? When she was patching Rumi up? She looked like she was being gentle. She talked like she cared. But it didn’t feel right. Her hands were too tight. That needle… it went in too deep.”

Zoey shivered. “You think she’s hurting her?”

“I think… I don’t know what I think.” Mira rubbed her arm. “But I didn’t want to leave Rumi alone with her. I wanted to grab her and run. That’s not normal, is it? Feeling like that around someone who’s supposed to be your guardian?”

“No,” Zoey said quietly.

Mira shook her head, frustrated. “I can’t prove anything. And maybe I’m wrong. But something’s off. I feel it. I just… I don’t think Rumi’s okay. Not really. And I don’t think she’s going to tell us on her own.”

Zoey reached across Rumi, her fingers brushing Mira’s wrist lightly. “So what do we do?”

“We stay close,” Mira said. “We don’t leave her alone. Not with Celine. Not until we know more.”

Zoey nodded slowly. “I hope she lets us in.”

“I hope we give her enough reason to.”

And between them, Rumi slept on—safe, for now.

But even in sleep, her brow twitched, the burden never fully gone.

🦋

Rumi drifted awake slowly, the weight of sleep still clinging to her limbs. Her head throbbed, sharp and rhythmic, a migraine blooming behind her eyes like a stormcloud. Her ribs ached with every breath, and her shoulder itched beneath the bandages — stiff, tight, and hot from swelling.

But everything was… warm.

Soft.

Her body registered it before her mind could catch up. Warmth pressed against her on both sides — not blankets, not pillows. People. Bodies.

Zoey was draped over her front like a clingy jungle cat, arm sprawled over her waist, one leg tangled with hers. And behind her, Mira’s arm lay relaxed near her shoulder, not quite touching but there. A steady presence.

Rumi stiffened slightly. Too close. She needed space. She—

Tried to sit up.

And the world tilted.

A sick wave of vertigo rushed over her, and she swayed forward—only for Mira, already half-awake, to reach and steady her with practiced ease.

“Whoa,” Mira said softly, her hand splayed across Rumi’s upper arm, steady but careful. “That looked like it sucked.”

“It did,” Rumi muttered, blinking through the spin. “How late is it?”

“Resting time,” Mira said smoothly, brushing a few strands of hair away from Rumi’s cheek. “Now lay back down before you fall on your face.”

Rumi gave a weak scoff, but didn’t move. Her limbs felt like wet noodles and her migraine made thinking too hard. Still, her instincts screamed she’d overslept — missed training. Missed routine. She should be up. Doing something. Earning her place here.

“It’s unfair,” she mumbled.

“What is?” Mira asked.

“All of it,” Rumi muttered, the words slipping out because her usual filters were battered. “Just… this.”

Before she could clarify, Zoey shifted in her sleep — or so Rumi thought — only for her to press closer, burrowing her face into Rumi’s shoulder with a sleepy hum.

“Mmph. You’re warm,” Zoey mumbled. “You smell like earth and rain.”

Rumi blinked. “…That’s not a compliment.”

“I didn’t say it was.” Zoey grinned against her. “Now shhh. You’re a heating pad. Don’t move.”

Rumi tried again to sit up, stiffly, gritting her teeth. “I should—”

Zoey suddenly clamped down, wrapping her arms fully around Rumi and dragging her gently back down into the nest of pillows and limbs.

“Nope,” Zoey said brightly, her voice far too smug for six in the morning. “Denied. Try again tomorrow. Or never.”

“I can’t just lie here,” Rumi argued, even as she… stopped resisting. Because she was tired. Because the warmth felt nice. Because she didn’t have the strength to move anyway.

Mira arched a brow from the other side of the bed. “You broke your body yesterday. Cracked rib, torn shoulder, migraine, and probably half a dozen pulled muscles. You’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m fine,” Rumi said automatically.

Mira leaned in, eyes sharp and unwavering. “We will not let you get up until you give a real answer.”

That stopped her.

Cornered by that gaze, by Zoey’s refusal to budge, by the painful reality in her body, Rumi folded.

“My head’s pounding. I feel like I’ve been chewed up and spat out. And the bandages itch,” she mumbled, looking away.

“Better,” Mira said gently, reaching over and brushing her knuckles against Rumi’s temple. “Now rest.”

Rumi sighed. “Okay. Now I can—”

“Nope!” Zoey sang again, tightening her grip. “I didn’t say you could get up. I never agreed.”

Rumi blinked. “But I—”

“I’m comfy,” Zoey said with mock seriousness. “You’re very plush for someone made of knives and angst. And I’m a light sleeper, so any movement would be considered a direct attack.”

Rumi stared at her. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re soft,” Zoey countered, nuzzling her shoulder. “Physically. Deal with it.”

Mira snorted, stretching her arms overhead with a lazy grace. “Just accept it, Rumi. You’re not escaping.”

Caught between them — Zoey curled over her like a sleepy vine and Mira resting behind her, a quiet mountain of safety — Rumi’s usual reflexes faltered. No edge. No out.

And no instinct to run.

Instead, she melted.

Zoey’s body was warm and grounding. Mira’s presence, though calm, was steady and alert. And the bed was safe. Not a battlefield, not a test. Just soft.

No one needed her to be sharp or fast or perfect.

They just… wanted her here.

“I hate you both,” she murmured, voice already slipping into sleep again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zoey whispered, grinning. “Love you too, murder princess.”

Mira smiled into her pillow, watching the way Rumi’s shoulders dropped as she exhaled.

In minutes, Rumi was asleep again — breathing even, her face pressed into the crook of Zoey’s neck, one hand still lightly holding Mira’s wrist like she didn’t even realize it.

Neither of the girls moved.

They just lay there, quiet, watching her finally rest.

And held her together.

🦋

The second time Rumi stirred awake, the light outside the curtains had deepened to a soft, rainy gray. A quiet hush settled over the room—warm, dim, safe in a way she didn’t fully understand but couldn’t quite bring herself to reject. The morning had already happened, the dizzy wake-up and Mira catching her before she collapsed; Zoey’s sleepy snuggle and Mira’s gently firm insistence that she wasn’t going anywhere. After some whispered words, she’d fallen back asleep again, body giving out before her will could fight.

Now, though, the pain was back—lower, duller, but still there. Her ribs throbbed in a slow, steady beat; her shoulder burned in an itchy, healing kind of way. And her head… she winced faintly. The migraine was still lingering like stormclouds behind her eyes.

Mira was awake again, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the bed with a book open on her lap. Not her phone this time. She wasn’t reading, though—her eyes flicked now and then to Rumi, and to Zoey, who was still curled around Rumi’s side like a protective cat. Her fingers loosely gripped Rumi’s sleeve. Every now and then, she’d twitch in sleep, but she hadn’t stirred fully.

Rumi shifted slightly. The motion pulled at her side, and she winced. Mira’s gaze snapped toward her immediately, eyes alert but calm.

“Hey,” she whispered, soft and low. “You okay?”

Rumi blinked at her slowly, unsure how to answer that question. Before she could try, a soft knock interrupted them.

The door creaked open.

Celine stepped in, as polished and composed as ever, though her smile had been carefully dialed down to something more “gentle caretaker.” She carried a small tray—simple food, a mug of tea, and two painkillers tucked on the edge of a napkin.

Mira stiffened slightly but didn’t move. She watched Celine cross the room in smooth, quiet steps.

Celine paused at the edge of the bed, her voice lowered. “She needs to eat something before taking these.”

Zoey stirred at the sound and blinked awake slowly, eyes unfocused until she registered who was in the room. Then she sat up straighter, arm still half-wrapped around Rumi.

Rumi, meanwhile, had tensed again.

It wasn’t as dramatic as before—not the jolt of full-body panic from that morning—but Mira didn’t miss it. The way her back subtly straightened. The slight hitch in her breath. Her eyes, just barely open, sharpening toward full alertness as soon as Celine spoke.

Celine either didn’t notice or pretended not to. She placed the tray gently on the nightstand and smiled at Mira.

“I thought it might help her rest better,” she said, still in that careful tone. “The painkillers will take the edge off. And… it’s good she’s not alone.”

Mira didn’t respond right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on Rumi, who’d tucked herself back down into the pillows like she wasn’t entirely sure if she was welcome there anymore.

Zoey leaned forward slightly. “She hasn’t really eaten,” she whispered. “Just… water.”

“She’ll try,” Mira said, speaking for her. “After a bit.”

There was something in Mira’s gaze now—watchfulness, calm but not trusting.

Celine nodded slowly. Her expression shifted slightly—not visibly colder, just… a little more calculated.

“I also wanted to let you both know,” she added lightly, like it was casual and not pointed, “that we should begin combat training with the two of you. Sooner rather than later.”

Both girls tensed at once.

Mira’s shoulders stiffened. Zoey blinked hard, sitting upright, clearly trying to shake off sleep.

Celine continued, her voice carefully measured. “You’re part of this now. And Rumi can’t keep going out there alone. You saw how badly she came back. It’s not sustainable. You need to be able to defend yourselves. And each other.”

Rumi shifted again, and Mira instinctively moved to support her.

Her voice came rough, hoarse, but clear from where she lay half-curled under the blankets.

“No.”

Celine turned.

Rumi’s eyes were open now, cloudy with exhaustion but sharp around the edges. “They can train,” she said quietly, “but they’re not coming into the field. Not until they have their weapons.”

A long pause hung in the air. Mira could feel Zoey’s fingers tighten gently on the blanket between them.

Celine’s expression didn’t change much—but something behind her eyes cooled. She looked like she might argue—but then she seemed to weigh something. Her smile flickered faintly, and she inclined her head.

“Alright,” she said. “You’re right. Training first.”

Then she glanced once more at Zoey’s closeness to Rumi, her hand still resting on Rumi’s blanket-covered wrist. For the briefest second, her gaze lingered there, unreadable.

But when she turned to Mira again, her voice was light. “Just let me know when she’s eaten.”

She left the tray behind and stepped out, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Rumi exhaled into the quiet. It was barely a sound. Zoey tucked herself closer again.

“You okay?” she whispered.

Rumi didn’t answer.

🦋

Training began the next morning.

Rumi was benched—officially. Celine had insisted, in a tone too sweet to argue with, that no weapons or harsh movement would happen until Rumi was fully healed. Her rib was still bruised, her shoulder stiff, and the faint echoes of her migraine pulsed like phantom pain behind her eyes.

Still, after nearly twenty-four hours of sleep—more than she’d had in any single stretch since she was ten—Rumi felt oddly light. Loosened. Less sharp-edged, though a little disoriented. She grumbled half-heartedly about being sidelined, but relented when Zoey gave her a look of mock sternness and Mira pointedly waved a water bottle at her.

“I’m not sitting around and doing nothing,” she muttered as they headed toward the training field, her hoodie loose over her frame, sleeves pulled low to hide the gauze. “I’ll observe. Give feedback.”

Mira snorted. “You mean coach us like a cranky drill sergeant?”

Rumi didn’t answer, which was its own kind of confirmation.

The clearing Celine had chosen was tucked behind a wall of tall trees, the early sun dappled across the flattened grass. It wasn’t the city square where Rumi had fought. Not the mountaintop where she’d bled. It was quieter here. Controlled.

Celine stood waiting, wearing a version of her usual smile that looked just a little too polished. She greeted them warmly enough, giving Zoey and Mira a rundown of what their training would include—strength conditioning, stamina work, and above all else, reflex drills.

“We’ll build up to weapons,” she said lightly. “But the first thing you need to learn is how to move.”

From a boulder at the edge of the field, Rumi sat with her knees tucked up and a notebook in her lap, pretending to write notes she’d probably memorize instead. She watched every motion, every misstep. Her eyes never stopped scanning.

Celine clapped her hands. “We’re starting with dodge training. Evasion, footwork, peripheral awareness.”

Which meant, apparently, flinching out of the way of stones.

Small ones, at first. Nothing painful. Celine moved fast though, surprising them with angles—underhand tosses, quick flicks, a few that came from behind just to test their hearing.

Zoey squeaked on the first throw, ducking into Mira’s shoulder. Mira cursed, then tried to laugh it off. The two of them began weaving, stumbling, learning quickly which foot to pivot on and how to twist a shoulder just right.

“Eyes up, Zoey!” Rumi called, voice sharp but not unkind.

Zoey yelped, ducking just in time as a small stone sailed over her head. It thudded harmlessly into the grass behind her. “That’s cheating!” she shouted, breathless but laughing.

Celine didn’t even look remorseful as she picked up another stone. “The world doesn’t play fair,” she said, tossing the next one toward Mira.

Mira skipped back, dodging with an awkward hop that almost made her trip over her own feet. She caught herself with a grin, cheeks flushed from effort. “If this is training, what’s punishment supposed to look like?”

Rumi sat cross-legged at the edge of the practice circle, one arm propped around her middle, still careful with her bruised side. A notebook sat open on her knee, mostly ignored. She sipped water as she observed them. “Reflex work isn’t punishment. You’re learning how to survive.”

“Still kinda rude,” Zoey muttered, half-grinning as she danced around another toss.

It was the first day of their formal training, and for the moment, it was almost fun. The sun filtered through the trees, casting long beams of golden light across the clearing. Celine was surprisingly methodical in her instructions, showing them how to pivot, to sidestep, to shift their weight. The girls were winded, sweaty, but smiling. Even Mira, who rarely let herself look too open, had an easy look in her eyes.

Rumi watched it all quietly. She corrected their footwork, pointed out small flaws, but she didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t push.

And then—Celine’s next toss was a bit faster, a little sharper. Zoey missed it by a hair, and it clipped her shoulder lightly. She winced but laughed, brushing it off.

Rumi blinked.

⚡️

She was six again.

No warning. No laughter. No instruction.

Just cold dirt under her feet and a heavy silence above it.

She stood alone in the center of a stone courtyard, knees skinned, too tired to hold her stance properly. Her arms trembled at her sides. The first stone struck her thigh. Hard. The second came faster, caught her cheek and spun her halfway around. Her vision blurred.

“Again,” the voice said—low and sharp, no hint of compassion.

She tried to dodge the next one and failed. It slammed into her shoulder. Pain lanced down her back. Her breath hitched.

“Again.”

They didn’t aim to miss.

She hadn’t known training could be anything else.

The stones didn’t teach her agility; they taught her not to cry. Not to flinch. Not to ask for help. Each bruise became a lesson burned into her body—don’t be weak. Don’t slow down. Don’t stop moving. If you fall, get up before they say it again.

She never got a water break. Never a smile.

Only one lesson: Survive.

⚡️

“Rumi?” Mira’s voice cut through the fog.

She jerked slightly, her water bottle trembling in her grip. Zoey had paused mid-step, blinking at her.

Rumi swallowed. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You spaced out,” Mira said gently.

“Sorry,” Rumi muttered. She looked down at the notebook she hadn’t touched in five minutes. “Just thinking.”

“You’re allowed,” Zoey said. Her voice was lighter, teasing. “But we expect judgmental commentary with every sip of water.”

Rumi gave a small, dry smile.

Celine clapped her hands. “Water break. Ten minutes.”

Mira flopped to the ground with a huff. “If this is how bad my legs feel now, I don’t want to imagine week two.”

Zoey joined her on the grass, laying back, eyes closed. “If week two doesn’t include a pizza reward system, I might riot.”

Rumi stayed seated, but a little farther away. Her gaze drifted to the stones again—smooth, light, thrown with care. Intentional but harmless.

She curled her fingers tighter around the bottle and let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

This was different.

She was different now.

They would be too—but not broken. Not like she had been.

Not if she had anything to say about it.

Chapter Text

The training session ended on breathless laughs and flushed faces. Mira had taken to the movement drills like she’d done it her whole life, her steps sharp and precise, leaping from the path of Celine’s thrown stones like a dancer. Zoey, on the other hand, was still more chaos than grace—but she made up for it with raw joy.

“That was awesome,” Zoey gasped, practically spinning in place on the grass, arms flung out as if she could take off. “Did you see that last one? I didn’t even trip!”

“You actually got airborne,” Mira said, towel draped over her shoulders as she reached for her water bottle. “Wasn’t sure you had that in you.”

“I’m insulted and flattered. Mostly flattered.”

Rumi watched from her usual distance, leaning against a nearby tree with one arm curled around her middle. She had stayed mostly quiet throughout the session, eyes tracking their footwork and timing, occasionally calling out pointers. But now, as the energy wound down, she quietly began to drift away, retreating toward the estate and her room.

Mira saw it immediately and stepped in her path. “Uh-uh. Not so fast.”

Rumi blinked. “What?”

“You’re not going to vanish into your room and start training in secret or reorganizing your blades or whatever you do when no one’s looking.”

“I wasn’t—” Rumi started, but Zoey cut in with a lopsided grin.

“You give off major ‘I will work through a bullet wound and call it a scratch’ energy. Not happening today.”

Rumi looked between them, caught off-guard by how quickly—how easily—they’d read her. Her shoulders dipped with a soft sigh. “I just… I can’t sit still the whole day.”

Zoey stepped beside Mira, nudging Rumi’s arm gently. “Then sit still with us. I have an idea that involves music and zero cardio. I’ve been listening to so much Sunlight Sisters, and I have this notebook just full of lyrics and no idea what to do with them. I thought maybe we could try writing something together? Like… a song that’s just ours.”

Rumi hesitated, lips twitching with something like uncertainty. “I’ve never—”

“Exactly,” Zoey interrupted brightly. “New things are good! Like… emotional collaboration, creativity, sitting still. All that terrifying stuff.”

Mira laughed under her breath, already turning toward the house. “Sounds good to me. Also, shower. I love you guys, but you both smell like sunburnt socks.”

As they gathered their things, Celine appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, her tone too pleasant to be casual. “You could just go to Rumi’s room. It has an attached shower, and the acoustic materials are stored in the back wall unit. Would save you the trip.”

Mira paused, lifting a brow. “Didn’t know that.”

Zoey turned to Rumi, blinking. “Wait, your room has a sound system and a private shower? Fancy.”

Rumi’s expression flickered—somewhere between cautious and unsure. The instinct to say no hovered on her tongue, but their faces were so open, so genuine in their offer to stay, to include her in something soft and normal.

She nodded once. “Okay. Sure.”

Zoey grinned. “Awesome. Shower time, then lyrics. I’m claiming the warmest blanket.”

Mira glanced over, smirking. “You always do.”

Rumi followed, slower, still fighting the deep-seated itch to keep moving, to stay useful, to not let herself rest. But with Zoey already humming as she walked and Mira offering her a hand towel with a faint, amused shake of her head, she let herself fall into step with them.

After a quick stop to grab clean clothes—Zoey emerging with a colorful mess bundled in her arms and Mira with a carefully chosen change tucked under one arm—the girls followed Rumi down the quieter hallway of the estate. This wing felt different. Quieter. Less walked.

She stopped at a plain door with no markings, the paint slightly worn around the handle, and pushed it open.

Zoey stepped inside first—and blinked. “Whoa. This is… really nice.”

It was. The room was spacious, soaked in the soft, warm light of the early evening sun filtering in through a large window. The air was cooler here, crisper, like the mountain breeze snuck in through the cracked pane. There was a soft rug on the floor beneath a queen-sized bed dressed in pale, dreamy linens—cool grays, powder blues, and warm cream. Everything looked tidy, almost too tidy, like it had been arranged to look comfortable instead of lived-in.

“It’s even nicer than our guest room,” Zoey murmured, wandering further in. “And we share.”

But the longer they looked, the more little oddities jumped out. There were no photos on the walls, no posters or paintings—just blank space and muted tones. It was… impersonal. Deliberately so. Like someone had tried to build a safe space but hadn’t known what to fill it with.

But one thing did stand out: a hammock slung high beneath the ceiling, anchored by heavy hooks and hanging just in front of the tall window. It looked slightly faded from sun exposure and clearly well-used. Beneath it sat the large bed—so it wasn’t for lack of sleeping space.

Mira tilted her head, puzzled. “Wait. Why do you have two beds?”

Rumi looked up at the hammock and shrugged, as though the answer were obvious. “I like high places.”

Zoey squinted up at it. “Okay, but how do you get into it? There’s no ladder or anything.”

“I jump,” Rumi replied matter-of-factly, already shifting her stance like she was about to demonstrate.

Zoey didn’t even hesitate—she reached out and caught Rumi’s arm with a firm grip. “Nope. Absolutely not. Not with your shoulder and your ribs still a mess.”

Rumi blinked down at her, surprised, a faint frown flickering. “I wasn’t going to land on them.”

“That is not reassuring,” Mira muttered, arms crossed.

Rumi sighed, resigned but not annoyed. “Fine.”

Zoey gave her a smug little smile, then wandered toward the wide desk along the far wall. “Is this your songwriting stuff?”

The desk was cluttered—almost in contrast to the rest of the room. There were notebooks everywhere, some spiral-bound, others leather or fabric-covered. Sticky notes dotted the surfaces, scribbled lyrics, chord progressions, occasional doodles. A digital recorder lay half-buried under a page that read ‘Rework chorus, second verse too heavy?’ in sharp, tidy handwriting.

And then there was the large note tacked to the corkboard above the desk:

DON’T FORGET TO EAT.
Big, bold, underlined three times. The kind of message that felt more like a plea than a reminder.

Zoey’s smile faded a little as she read it. Mira saw it too, her gaze catching on the words. There was no evidence of anyone else in the room. No signs of someone who reminded her to rest or brought her food.

Just Rumi.

And her signs.

“You actually use bath salts?” Zoey asked suddenly, trying to lift the mood again as she peeked into the open bathroom door. The space beyond was sleek and modern, tiled in deep grey and white stone. A walk-in shower stood beside a proper bathtub, long and deep—clearly used often, if the organized line of soaps, oils, and lavender salts was anything to go by.

“There’s a bath and a shower?” Mira asked, eyebrows rising.

“I like soaking after long runs,” Rumi said with a shrug, stepping forward and opening a drawer. She pulled out a stack of fresh towels and passed them off. “Here. You can go first.”

“Nope,” Zoey said. “We’re not just here to use your fancy spa. We’re here to hang out. You, me, Mira. Team moment.”

Rumi blinked. “I didn’t think we—”

“We are,” Mira said, voice leaving no room for argument. “And no, you don’t get out of it just because you’re bad at asking for company.”

Zoey grinned. “Also, your bed looks super comfy. And you definitely aren’t getting out of sitting down while we plan our first song. I have lyrics I need to workshop.”

“We literally just finished training,” Rumi said, but there was no fire behind her words.

“Exactly,” Zoey replied. “Time for music and creative genius. But first, showers. You last, since you’re injured and we don’t trust you not to do something dumb.”

Rumi narrowed her eyes. “That’s rude.”

“Not untrue, though,” Mira chimed in, already walking toward the bathroom.

Rumi stared after them for a beat as they disappeared, towels in hand, laughter echoing faintly. She stood in the middle of her own room, still quiet, still untouched, and watched the way their presence shifted the energy. Brought it to life. It felt nice. Safe. Home.

🦋

The room smelled faintly of lavender and the citrusy remnants of soap from the recent showers, the warmth of the steam still lingering in the air like a memory. The girls had all changed into clean clothes—comfy, worn-in fabrics, loose cuts, soft textures. Zoey had flopped onto the bed first, damp hair in a messy bun, wearing one of Mira’s oversized T-shirts. Mira, in shorts and a tank, sat cross-legged beside her, scrolling through her phone for a second before dropping it to the bed with a sigh.

Rumi didn’t sit with them.

She had perched herself on the edge of her desk instead, one foot tucked onto the chair in front of her, the other dangling absently. Her damp hair was pushed back from her face, her half-sleeved top a muted earthy tone, blending into the soft light of the room. It hung casually over her frame, hiding more than it revealed—but not completely.

If you weren’t paying attention, you’d never see it. The faint pale lines, etched like whispers along the curve of her upper arm. Barely-there traces of old fights, stories told in the faintest of scars. But Mira had always been observant—she noticed. Zoey too, her bright, expressive eyes catching on the almost invisible line along Rumi’s forearm, narrowing just a fraction.

Neither of them said anything. They just saw. And that was enough.

“So…” Zoey broke the silence, her voice gentler now. “Do you think you have another journal I could use?”

Rumi blinked, pulling her eyes away from the window. “You filled yours already?”

Zoey lifted the old one, its pages warped slightly with overuse and ink blotches. “Pretty much. Lyrics, random poems, some weird dreams I had. I write when I get overwhelmed.”

Rumi nodded, wordless, and turned to open a drawer behind her. After a moment of sorting, she pulled out a soft blue journal with a subtle embroidered pattern stitched across the spine. She hesitated for only a second before standing and walking over to the bed, handing it to Zoey along with the sleek pen she’d been holding.

“This one’s yours now.”

Zoey’s eyes widened. “This is really nice.”

“You’ll fill it.”

The words were simple, but the way Rumi said them—calm, assured—made Zoey smile and press the journal to her chest. “Thanks.”

Mira, resting on her side with her elbow propped up, nudged Zoey with her knee. “So, what do we write?”

Zoey tilted her head, thoughtful. “I was thinking… being home. You said freedom earlier, right?”

Mira nodded. “Yeah. It feels like that’s the whole point of this, doesn’t it?”

Their eyes drifted to Rumi. She was watching them now—quiet, guarded, but present.

“I’d write about being seen,” she said after a long pause, voice quiet and a little raw.

The words sat in the room like soft thunder. Neither Mira nor Zoey commented on it directly, but both of them took a breath—deep, full of something unspoken.

Zoey opened the journal carefully and wrote down the three phrases in loopy, energetic handwriting:

Being free.
Being home.
Being seen.

“Let’s start from here,” she said, scooting back against the pillows. “Mira, you’re on melody duty.”

Mira groaned but reached for her phone. “Fine. But Rumi’s helping with structure. She’s the only one who knows what the hell she’s doing.”

Rumi offered a slow blink. “I can give feedback.”

Zoey grinned. “Perfect. You can sit there all mysterious and judging. Just like you do during training.”

That got the smallest hint of a smirk from Rumi as she returned to her desk, legs folding up under her as she listened to the girls bounce ideas off each other—Zoey scribbling, Mira humming quietly under her breath.

🦋

Zoey’s brow furrowed so hard it looked like the lyrics might physically start hurting her. “Wait, no—this line doesn’t work either! Ugh, it sounds cheesy!”

She tossed the pen aside, flopping dramatically backward across the bed, arms splayed. “Why is this so hard?!”

Mira sat cross-legged beside her, notebook open on her lap, looking like she’d just been hit by a math test in a foreign language. “I mean… it rhymes?”

Zoey shot her a dry look. “Mira, no offense, but you literally suggested ‘fire, higher, desire’ like we were writing a 90s boyband breakup song.”

Mira rolled her eyes. “Okay, well, excuse me for not being Taylor Swift.”

The bed was a mess of crossed-out drafts, scribbled notes, pens in four different colors, and a pile of lyrics that had started to feel more like a battlefield than a songwriting session. Zoey looked like she was about to implode. Mira had the patience of someone who had already resigned herself to the crash.

Rumi watched all of it from her desk—shoulder aching, head still dulled at the edges from the lingering echo of a migraine. She had tried to stay out of it, to let them find their own rhythm.

But Zoey’s latest frustrated sound made her sigh.

“Give me the notebook,” she said, standing and walking over.

Zoey blinked. “You—what?”

“I said, give it here.” Rumi sat down between them on the bed, reaching out with an open hand. Her sleeves were pushed up just enough to reveal the faintest edges of old battle scars, more like soft shadows than lines—subtle, but there if you looked.

Zoey passed her the notebook wordlessly, and Mira handed her the pen.

Rumi didn’t speak at first, just flipped through the pages of half-formed lyrics and rhyming attempts. Her brow furrowed, then smoothed out again. She made a few thoughtful hums under her breath, small and focused.

Then she turned to a fresh page.

Her handwriting was neat. Unnervingly neat. Each letter flowed like a note in a song already heard. Mira and Zoey leaned in from either side, peering over her shoulder as her pen moved quickly but with purpose.

She didn’t explain. She just wrote.

Verse 1 — Mira
🎵
They told me what I had to be
A cage of silence, always agree
But I broke the mold, I shattered the scream
Now I walk loud, bold, and free
🎵

Verse 2 — Zoey
🎵
Too loud, too bright, too much they said
I learned to laugh, danced fear instead
This time I write my name in gold—
I’ve found my people, I’ve found my home.
🎵

Verse 3 — Rumi
🎵
Kept to shadows, kept things small
Thought I had to carry it all
But eyes met mine, no need to flee—
In your gaze, I’m finally seen.
🎵

Chorus — All
🎵
We’re free—we run, we rise, we dream
We found the light, the cracks between
We’re fire and home, no longer alone
Together strong, together seen.
🎵

Zoey’s eyes glimmered as she read it. “Oh my god, Rumi…”

“That’s…” Mira whispered, trailing off.

“Can we—can we try it?” Zoey asked, breathless with excitement.

Rumi nodded. “Mira, you start.”

Mira blinked, then found her voice. She sang soft at first, then with more strength. Her voice wasn’t perfect, but it had a rawness, a truth to it that didn’t need polish.

Zoey followed, her verse quick, a rhythm that danced off her tongue like something electric. She beamed, as if the words themselves had unlocked something bright in her chest.

Then Rumi—quiet and low, almost a whisper against the wall of their voices—sang her part. It was tender. Gentle. But it held—like silk stretched over steel.

And then they all lifted their voices for the chorus.

Their harmonies weren’t perfect, but they were theirs. Woven with laughter, scars, and hope.

And just as the last line faded out, the window behind them filled with pale blue light.

Zoey gasped. Mira turned, eyes wide.

Outside, above the garden, the Honmoon had risen—brilliant and soft, its glow washing over the glass in gentle waves. It pulsed, slow and even, as if it were listening. As if it approved.

Zoey looked back at Rumi. “It heard us.”

Rumi, still staring at the moonlight spilling across her bed, just nodded. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Seems like the Honmoon loves it.”

Mira didn’t say anything, but she reached across the space and took Rumi’s hand, fingers warm and steady.

Rumi didn’t pull away.

Chapter Text

The Honmoon pulsed quietly in the sky—its glow steadier, stronger than it had been in weeks. It didn’t just rise now; it watched. Like it was listening to something just out of reach. Rumi noticed it first: the strange sense of quiet. The subtle absence of something she’d trained herself to always feel—the creeping pull of a new demon rising. The air felt cleaner. Lighter.

The second song had just been finished that morning.

Maybe it was coincidence. But Rumi didn’t believe in those anymore.

Only one demon in two weeks.

For someone used to hunting at least three or four in that time, it felt… foreign. Rumi healed fast—three days in, her rib had already sealed back up, the bruising gone yellow and faint. The migraines had faded too, mostly. But still, Celine had said, “Two weeks, minimum. Just because your body’s faster doesn’t mean your mind’s caught up.”

Rumi hadn’t argued.

What was there to argue about when, for once, no one was asking her to fight?

She didn’t quite know what to do with the sudden space in her days. No new injuries to wrap. No screaming alarms. Just… time.

🦋

They’d made a routine of it, the three of them.

Every morning began with training. The sunlight filtering through the old garden trees cast gold patches over the practice ground, and Zoey was always the first to arrive—hair pulled into a crooked ponytail, hoodie sleeves rolled up and mismatched socks peeking from under her leggings.

“I’m ready to be an action heroine,” she’d declare, every single day. “Give me some wirework and a dramatic slow-mo spin.”

Mira was more focused. Always watching, taking mental notes, brow furrowed. She had the makings of a tactician—quick reflexes, sharper instincts. She was the first to dodge, the last to stumble. And she didn’t like to lose.

Celine usually led the first half of the sessions—focused on muscle control, form, stance, breath. Her voice was calm and instructive, her corrections efficient. But something in her eyes flicked toward Rumi more than once, watching from the sidelines, silently measuring.

Then Rumi would take over.

Where Celine emphasized structure, Rumi focused on rhythm. Movement as instinct. Reading intention from the tension in someone’s shoulders, knowing how to redirect without overreaching.

“No, not like that,” Rumi would say, stepping in behind Zoey, gently tapping her elbow to shift the angle. “You’re aiming from your arm. Use your center—pull the motion from your ribs, not your wrist.”

Zoey grinned, sweat-soaked but still chipper. “You’re scary good at this. Were you a sensei in a past life?”

Rumi shrugged. “Maybe. Or just trained by one who thought I needed to survive this one.”

Mira always paid close attention when Rumi corrected anything. She rarely asked questions—but every time Rumi turned around, Mira was already copying the movement, trying to perfect it.

After two hours of combat drills, they transitioned to music. It was always in their room, sprawled across Rumi’s floor or gathered around her desk. Her room had become the heart of their creative world—big and strangely calm, like the space itself had been waiting for voices to echo through it.

Zoey always brought the energy.

“This time, I want a verse that’s like—bam! And then, like—whoosh!” She gestured dramatically, nearly knocking over a water glass. “You know?”

“I have no idea,” Mira said, deadpan. “That sounded like a car crash.”

Rumi chuckled softly from behind her notebook. “Then it’s a good thing you‘re not writing.”

“Hey!”

But no one really argued about Rumi taking the lead when it came to polish lyrics. There was something about the way her words landed—simple, but sharp. Honest. She had a way of making even the messiest thoughts sound clean on paper.

🦋

One afternoon, Mira paused mid-dance step, breath catching. “I think… I think I have something for the chorus.”

Zoey’s head popped up from where she lay upside down on the bed. “Please don’t let it rhyme with ‘fire’ again.”

Mira rolled her eyes but laughed. “No, I swear. It’s more… feeling than rhyme.”

She began moving—slow at first, but with intent. Her hands moved like they were painting something midair.

“Movement,” Rumi said from where she sat cross-legged near the desk, “is just another kind of voice.”

“I want it to feel like freedom,” Mira said, more to herself than them. “Like we’re breaking out of a cage that never really fit.”

Zoey slid off the bed to join her. “I want it to feel like coming home. Like, finally, we’re not alone in this.”

Rumi didn’t speak. But she reached for the notebook, her fingers already moving.

That afternoon, they sang it—rough, unpolished, voices catching on laughter and breath. But when the three of them hit the chorus together, something shifted.

The Honmoon rose high that night, so bright it seemed to wash the shadows off the walls. Waves of soft blue light rolled across the ceiling. The air smelled faintly of summer rain.

Rumi stood at the window, arms crossed, watching it.

Mira came up beside her. “That’s the fourth night in a row it’s done that.”

Zoey stretched out on the bed behind them. “You think it likes our music?”

“I think it likes that we’re… us,” Rumi said softly. Then, more to herself: “That we’re not falling apart.”

🦋

Celine was always there.

She didn’t intrude—not exactly. But she lingered. At the edge of the training field, in the doorway during songwriting sessions, on the sidelines of laughter and soft moments that weren’t meant to be shared. She gave useful feedback: Mira’s footwork was cleaner thanks to her notes, and Zoey’s guard had tightened. Her corrections were crisp, intelligent, and—technically—right.

But something about them felt wrong.
Like notes played in the perfect key but from an out-of-tune instrument.

And still, she was kind.

Even to Rumi.

Especially to Rumi.

She spoke to her gently, like she was coaxing her toward something soft and harmless. Gave the girls space when needed, made tea that she never drank herself, handed out praise just enough to earn trust. She didn’t touch, but her presence always hovered—like a shadow just out of sight. Always where she could see. Always watching.

Rumi didn’t say anything.
Didn’t fight it.
But she stayed close to Mira and Zoey. Closer than she realized.

In group discussions, she stood a little behind them. When Celine asked questions, she answered quietly, gaze flicking away. Her steps slowed when the others slowed. Her shoulder brushed Zoey’s more often. Mira began to notice it—the way Rumi lingered at their side, as if she were subconsciously hiding behind them. Like the one place she felt unobserved was in their orbit.

And Celine noticed, too.

But she never called attention to it. Instead, she adjusted. Smoothed her presence like silk. Spoke softer. Smiled easier. Looked at Rumi like someone trying to remember a forgotten language.

It made Mira’s stomach twist.

She wanted to trust that this was all just in her head. That maybe the wariness between Rumi and Celine was over. That the sharp moment in the infirmary and the ones before—whatever they had been—had passed and faded and left nothing behind. But something still whispered in her.

A voice low and steady:
Be careful.

🦋

The two weeks passed like they were drifting in a dream. A golden one.

Rumi healed. The bruises faded. The tension in her shoulders loosened.

And she stayed.

She stayed through the music-writing sessions, legs folded under her on the bed, long sleeves pushed to the elbows as she scribbled in perfect handwriting. She stayed for the sparring lessons, quiet but firm, correcting Mira’s stance with a hand on her shoulder and murmured tips on breathing.

She stayed for every one of Zoey’s wide-eyed, spiraling tangents about stage lighting and dance breaks and songwriting metaphors, her lips twitching into an amused smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes—but was still real.

They all stayed. With each other.

And for a little while, it felt like peace. Real peace.

The three of them trained, hard and smart. They danced. They sang. They made dumb jokes and skipped cooldown stretches. One afternoon, Zoey miscalculated a spin and fell off the bed with a dramatic yelp. Mira nearly collapsed from laughter. Rumi—startled at first—laughed so hard her chest ached. It was the kind of laughter that pulled old pain up with it and softened it. It was the kind that left behind no echo, only warmth.

On the last day of the break, as the sun dragged late afternoon across the tiles, Celine appeared again—quiet at first, watching from the training room doorway. Rumi had been giving Zoey tips on pivots, her hand lightly guiding Zoey’s hip.

“Rumi,” Celine said.

Rumi straightened slowly.

Celine stepped forward, folding her hands behind her back. “I thought it might be helpful to show them what real combat looks like. A spar between trained opponents.”

Rumi’s jaw ticked, nearly imperceptibly. “You want me to spar you.”

“Only if you’re up for it,” Celine said, head tilting slightly. “You’ve healed. And I think it could help them visualize what they’re training for. It’s hard to understand the pace of it until you’ve seen it.”

Mira turned her head sharply, already watching Rumi.

Zoey frowned, arms crossed but uncertain.

Rumi didn’t answer at first.

Then she nodded once. “Sure.”

But Mira caught it—the way her spine had stiffened. The way her eyes had lost that soft, relaxed sheen. Like something in her was armoring up again. Without even thinking about it.

And Celine smiled.

Not too much. Just enough.

🦋

Celine held out a wooden sword with the same smile she always wore when things were supposed to be casual, easy, normal.

Rumi took it, her fingers curling around the hilt automatically. No expression, no hesitation. Just muscle memory.

Across the mat, Celine reached for her own weapon—a wooden sickle, curved and sharp-looking even dulled with age. Her preferred choice.

Their preferred pairing.

The air shifted.

Zoey fidgeted beside Mira, chewing on her thumbnail. Mira’s eyes never left the way Rumi stood—still, almost too still. Like she was already bracing for something.

Celine stepped into position, graceful and confident. “We’ve done this plenty of times,” she said lightly, smiling over at Zoey and Mira. “Nothing to be nervous about. Just a spar.”

Rumi didn’t say anything.

Her jaw was tight. Her shoulders wound like a spring.
She didn’t want to be here. That much was obvious now. And yet—here she was.

Zoey leaned toward Mira. “This feels… not great.”

“You’re not wrong,” Mira muttered back.

The match began with a snap of wood against wood.

The first strike wasn’t a tap. It wasn’t careful. It was loud.

Celine didn’t ease in—she pushed, testing, fast. Her attacks weren’t wild, but they were relentless. Each move landed against Rumi’s blade with force that echoed.

But Rumi didn’t stumble.

She blocked. She stepped. She spun. She danced backward with a kind of precision that was unnatural, practiced beyond comfort.

Never once did she swing her sword back.
Never once did she counter.

“She’s… not even attacking,” Zoey whispered.

“She’s holding,” Mira said quietly. “All defense.”

Celine didn’t seem to mind.

In fact, she used it.

“Girls,” she called over, voice calm even between strikes, “watch her feet. Look how clean that pivot is—centered, always ready for the next move. That’s what you want to aim for.”

Zoey and Mira exchanged a look.

Rumi stepped out of the way of a high sweep, ducked beneath a follow-up strike, turned her body with surgical grace. Her breathing was measured, almost mechanical.

Celine kept going. “And see her arms? No wasted motion. Everything deliberate. You two can absolutely get to that level, I have no doubt.”

Rumi’s sword shook slightly in her hand. Not from weakness—from impact.

“She’s got an amazing guard,” Celine said brightly. “Honestly, I don’t know anyone with better instincts in a match.”

It was praise.

It was meant to be kind.

But Rumi barely seemed to hear it.

Because none of this was about growth. Or pride. Or learning.

This was a performance.

Rumi could feel it.

Celine wasn’t trying to hurt her. She was showcasing her. Displaying how far Rumi had come—how much she could endure. Every strike stopped just short of bruising. Just intense enough to look impressive. Just restrained enough to be read as “safe.”

And Rumi realized that Celine wasn’t doing this to prove something to her.
She was doing it for Zoey and Mira.

To show them that Rumi was fine.

That whatever had happened in the past—whatever bruises they’d seen, whatever late-night tears they hadn’t asked about—was just a misunderstanding.

'See? Look. No one’s getting hurt.'

Another set of fast blows came, rattling Rumi’s guard. She took each one. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back.

And she felt sick.

Why now?

Why this?

She remembered training that never stopped. Blows that didn’t pull back. Pain that wasn’t corrected, only endured.
Why could Celine pull her strikes now—train gently, kindly, carefully—when once she had never even paused to see the damage?

Why now, when it was safe to pretend?

Another clash. Another step back. Another brutal onslaught, faster now.
Rumi’s hands ached from the grip. Her arms shook with the force of each block. Still no retaliation.

Mira noticed the Honmoon glow shift. A faint shimmer along the floor, like blue light curling at the edges of Rumi’s shadow.

Zoey took a step forward. “Rumi—?”

But the match kept going.

Faster.

A blur of wood and steps and shifting weight.

And the wooden sword snapped.

The half still in Rumi’s hand splintered, the other piece spinning into the corner of the room.

Zoey gasped. Mira took a step forward—

But Rumi didn’t flinch.

She didn’t step back. She didn’t blink.

Celine’s sickle came down in a tight arc. There wasn’t time to dodge.

Instead, she reached out—fluid, natural—and caught the wooden sickle mid-swing with her bare hand.

Rumi didn’t even blink.

The sound was horrible—wood against skin, the impact sharp. A red welt bloomed instantly across her palm.

Zoey rushed to her first. “Rumi!”

Mira was seconds behind. “Hey, hey, you okay? That—what the hell—”

But Rumi didn’t say anything.

She stood still, breathing evenly, eyes on Celine. Her hand was shaking, but her face stayed unreadable.

Celine smiled, stepping back. “That was a good spar. Really solid defense. You didn’t give me a single opening.”

And she was right.

Technically.

It had been a good spar.

Good form. No injuries. Controlled outcomes.

But Rumi looked at the red line swelling across her palm, at the shattered pieces of the sword on the floor, and all she felt was the sour burn of something like betrayal curdling in her stomach.

Why was this possible now, when it had never been before?

Why had she suffered so much, if Celine had always been capable of being soft?

Neither girl said anything.

Mira slipped her arm around Rumi’s back, grounding her, steadying her. Zoey clutched her uninjured hand gently.

It wasn’t just the bruise.
It wasn’t just the broken sword.
It was the way Rumi had looked like she didn’t even feel it.

Like she was already gone somewhere else.

Celine, still smiling, didn’t seem to notice. “Let’s take five. You did great.”

But Mira’s eyes narrowed. Her suspicion returning. Her instincts whispering again.

Zoey’s grip didn’t loosen.

And Rumi—
Rumi said nothing at all.

But she didn’t look at her broken sword.
She looked at Celine.

And she wondered, not for the first time,
How long have you known how to be gentle?
And why didn’t I deserve it?

Chapter Text

The bruise on Rumi’s hand was the only injury left.

A dark, angry imprint across her palm, blooming with the exact shape of the wooden sickle she’d caught mid-swing. It ached in steady pulses, but she didn’t wrap it. Didn’t ice it. Didn’t acknowledge it at all.

She didn’t need to.

The pain wasn’t the problem.

Not really.

After the spar, Celine had praised her. Words sharp with pride but utterly weightless. “Perfect footwork, as always. You’ve only gotten better, Rumi.”

Mira and Zoey had flinched more than once watching the fight. The brutal rhythm of it. The way Rumi never struck, only defended—shoulders set like iron, feet dancing back, never forward. She had caught that sickle like she had done it a thousand times.

And Celine… Celine had smiled.

“This is good for them to see,” she’d said, gesturing toward Mira and Zoey. “They should understand what it takes. And how good you are.”

It was meant as kindness.

Rumi hadn’t said anything.

She hadn’t needed to. Something inside her had already started to crumble.

Because she’d felt it during the fight.

Celine had held back.

The blows had been brutal, yes—but restrained. Pulled at the last second. Controlled. Gentle in a way Rumi had never known.

Not really.

Not for her.

And that—that—was the worst part.

Celine could be gentle. Could be thoughtful. Could smile and guide and encourage.

She had just chosen not to.

Not with Rumi.

The realization hit like a stone in the gut. Rumi had always believed this was just how it was. That training hurt. That pain was part of love. That scars were earned, not prevented.

But Mira and Zoey were shown a different way.

A kinder one.

The way Celine guided them with corrections, not consequences. Praise, not punishment. The way she gave water breaks. Let them laugh. Let them rest.

Rumi had been raised on none of those things.

She had never even thought to ask why.

Until now.

So she left.

She didn’t say anything—not to Zoey, who had looked at her like she wanted to say something comforting, or Mira, who had clenched her fists every time Celine smiled like nothing had just happened.

She slipped away after nightfall. Out the side door. Down the garden path.

And toward her tree.

The old one, thick and steady, rising toward the stars with gnarled limbs and a low branch perfect for climbing. The one with roots like fingers curling around the gravestone at its base.

Her mother’s grave.

The only one she’d ever been allowed to visit.

She climbed without thinking, even with the bruise screaming in her hand. Even with her balance off. She moved like muscle memory, like ritual. Settled into the high crook of the tree where she could see the garden. The moon.

Everything and nothing.

The patterns on her shoulders itched beneath her half-sleeves.

Her skin buzzed with the weight of the sparring match, with Celine’s smile, with the memory of that moment—the one where she caught the blade, and Celine had stopped.

Why hadn’t she stopped before?

Why now?

Because of Zoey and Mira?

Because of appearances?

Because there was never any need to be gentle with her?

Rumi curled in on herself, her good hand gripping her bruised one like she could press the ache into silence.

She wasn’t stupid.

She knew what the patterns meant. What she was.

Half demon. A living reminder. Not like Zoey and Mira.

But wasn’t she also half human?

Didn’t that part deserve something?

Even once?

Even now?

She pressed her forehead to her knees and closed her eyes.

Celine could be kind. She just chose not to be.

Not with Rumi.

And that broke something that had already been cracked for a very long time.

She didn’t cry. Not yet. She didn’t know if she could. But she grieved. Quietly. For the mother she never knew. For the one she had. For the years that had sharpened her like blades and were called love.

And for the first time, she let herself wonder—

If she was allowed to want more.

🦋

She still hunted alone.

The demons came less now—weeks between sightings. And when they did, Rumi left in silence and returned with hardly a scratch. The Honmoon shimmered more often now, glowing at night with soft blue light. Peaceful. Almost protective.

It was fine. Everything was fine.

And the girls—they were thriving.

They’d already written three songs together. Songs about finding yourself, songs about beginnings, about connection and stardust and sunrise. Mira poured herself into the choreography, sometimes dragging Rumi and Zoey into full rehearsals that lasted until they collapsed laughing. Zoey scribbled lyrics in every free second, catchy, heartfelt, vibrant. Rumi worked on the melodies—her voice soft and strong in turn, shaping their sound with a natural instinct she’d never been trained in.

And the three of them? They fit. More than team. More than friends. Something sacred, still forming.

There were sleepovers now, real ones—blankets everywhere, tangled hair, late-night whispers in the dark. Rumi didn’t always sleep, but she stayed. Curled up in a corner of the bed or even the hammock by the window, listening to their breathing, letting herself believe—for a little while—that this was something she was allowed to have.

Celine let them. Of course she did. She still played the perfect mentor. Calm. Supportive. Watching. Always watching. And even when she smiled, Mira never stopped keeping half an eye on her. Zoey was better at ignoring the tension, changing the subject, dragging Rumi back into the light with a dumb joke or a melody in her head.

They had private tutors now too—well, Mira and Zoey did. School still existed, even if their world was a strange blur of training to fight demons and building a future on a stage. But Rumi didn’t have classes anymore. Celine had made sure of that. Pushed her to finish early, too early, so there’d be no distractions from her real task.

No room for childhood. No softness.

But now—

There was softness. Mira’s laugh. Zoey’s hand pulling her to dance. The sound of their voices layered in harmony. A different kind of future taking shape, even if Rumi didn’t fully trust it yet.

Still, she stayed close.

She let herself be close.

And little by little, she started to believe in the song they were writing together—

One with no blade at the end of every verse.

Then the morning sun spilled like honey across the training hall, golden warmth kissing the hardwood floor and Mira’s outstretched hands. She moved with careful grace, body swaying in time with the soft melody Zoey played from her phone.

Rumi sat cross-legged on a folded blanket, notebook resting against her thighs, eyes moving between Mira’s choreography and Zoey’s bright, bouncing lyrics. It was the first reading of their fourth song, and something about it clicked—like the pieces were all finally learning how to fall into place.

Zoey’s voice danced as she read her lines, gesturing wildly. “And then—bam! The beat hits here, right? Right after the ‘don’t look back’? I can almost feel it in my ribs—”

“You always feel it in your ribs,” Mira said, laughing.

“Because I have taste, Mira.”

Rumi let herself smile. The song was light, full of little hopes and soft rebellion. The girls were vibrant. Alive.

And for a fleeting moment, so was she.

Until the door opened.

Boots echoed across the floor. The tone dropped like glass cracking.

Celine walked in with a trunk in her arms—heavy, worn leather, the kind of thing that creaked when opened. She set it down with a dull thud, catching everyone’s attention.

“I think it’s time,” she said simply. Then unlatched the trunk.

Inside—wooden weapons. Staffs, daggers, sickles, swords. Dull, yes, but far from harmless.

The air turned still.

Zoey’s smile slipped. Mira frowned, stepping instinctively closer to Rumi, who hadn’t moved.

“I thought we were going to talk about this,” Rumi said, tone quiet. Flat.

“They need to start somewhere,” Celine replied, her voice a coach’s command. “You know that.”

Zoey blinked. “Start what?”

“Weapon training,” Celine answered. “It’s time you figured out what fits your hands. What makes sense in battle.”

Rumi stood up slowly, eyes fixed on the open trunk.

“No,” she said.

Celine tilted her head. “They’re ready.”

“They’re not.”

A flicker of tension passed between them. Zoey and Mira stayed quiet, watching.

And Rumi—Rumi remembered.

⚡️

She’d been nine. Maybe eight. Celine never told her birthdays. The wooden sword had felt heavier than it should have in her hands.

“No metal until you earn it,” Celine had said. “This will do.”

They were in the woods. Cold, wet leaves underfoot. The smell of rot and iron in the air. She had been shaking. Terrified. And still, Celine sent her in alone.

“You can’t kill a demon with wood,” she had whispered, knowing.

But she went anyway. Because she was told to. Because what choice did she have?

The demon came. A wretched thing, fast and wrong and hungry. The fight was a blur of panic, of sweat and blood and something feral rising in her throat. She fought hard. Fought well. But the blade was useless. And when she fell—when the demon stood over her—Celine had only stepped in at the very last second.

Afterward, Celine said, “You lasted longer than I thought.”

And Rumi hadn’t said a word. She’d just bled. And bled. And bled.

⚡️

“I said no,” Rumi said, her voice sharp enough to cut through the warmth in the room.

Mira stilled. She’d taken a small step forward, as if to speak again, but Rumi’s tone froze her mid-motion.

“They’re not ready,” Rumi continued, her arms crossed so tightly it looked like she might fold in on herself. “They’re still learning the basics—how to move, how to breathe in a fight. We’re not even close to weapons yet.”

Across from her, Celine stood with a trunk laid open at her feet, filled with neatly arranged wooden weapons—swords, sickles, batons, staffs. Each gleamed with purpose and expectation, as if they were waiting for hands too young to hold them.

Celine’s expression didn’t shift. “They’ll never be ready if you keep shielding them.”

Rumi’s jaw tightened. “Shielding them is exactly the point.”

“If you don’t give them the tools now, they’ll crumble the first time they face a real threat.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Celine said calmly. “Because I’ve seen it. So have you.”

Rumi’s body stilled. Her voice, when it came next, was lower. Cold.

“You think I don’t understand what danger looks like?”

Celine didn’t reply, but the silence said everything. She was pushing. She always pushed.

“You think I don’t know what helpless feels like?” Rumi’s words trembled at the edges. “You think I haven’t lived it?”

And still, Celine stood there, eyes hard with purpose, not cruelty—but not softness, either.

“You say this is about preparing them,” Rumi said, stepping closer now, tension rippling through her spine, “but all you’re doing is setting them up to break before they’ve even learned how to stand.”

Celine lifted her chin. “Strength doesn’t come from comfort, Rumi. It comes from pressure. From the fire. Just like it did for you.”

That was when it slipped.

Rumi’s breath stilled—and something darker surged up her throat.

The hiss that left her mouth wasn’t human.

It rattled out of her with a low, guttural sharpness—an instinctual snarl, not made of words but warning. Not rage, exactly. But something wilder. Something not tamed.

Zoey and Mira both jerked in place, their eyes wide—but not with fear. With shock.

Celine stepped back, just one step, but it was enough. Her hand curled slightly around the hilt of one of the wooden swords, tension blooming across her shoulders. Her eyes flickered—not afraid of Rumi’s strength, but of the part of her she didn’t understand. The part she’d always ignored.

Rumi straightened slowly, breath shallow. “I said no,” she repeated, this time quieter—but final, cold steel beneath velvet.

The silence held for a beat too long before Celine exhaled and offered, lightly, like an olive branch dipped in strategy:
“Then let them come on the next hunt. Watch. No weapons. Just observation. Let them see for themselves what they’re training for. And then let them choose.”

Rumi looked at her like she’d been struck. “No.”

“It’s just a scouting mission for them,” Celine said gently. “Low risk. Minimal threat. They won’t even engage. But if they don’t see what this is… then you’re training them blind.”

“I said—”

“It’s not the worst idea,” Mira murmured.

Rumi’s eyes snapped to her.

Mira didn’t back down. “We’re not asking to fight. Just… to understand.”

Zoey nodded. “We trust you, Rumi. But we don’t want to be stumbling in the dark. Let us see the path—even just once. Please.”

There was no accusation in their voices. No betrayal. Only hope. Belief.

But Rumi couldn’t breathe around it.

Couldn’t breathe past the scream of every instinct inside her. The weight of her memory pressing against her ribs.

She’d fought alone. She’d bled in the dark with only wooden weapons, and no one had told her she could say no. No one had offered her a choice.

And now, for the first time, she had the power to give that choice.

And they were asking to walk into the dark anyway.

Her throat tightened.

She turned away. Took a step. Then another.

“Rumi—” Zoey called, quietly, following.

She reached for her arm.

And Rumi did something she hadn’t done in a long, long time.

She pulled back.

Not roughly. Not with anger. But firmly. With a small shake of her head that said not now. That said don’t.

Zoey’s hand lingered in the air, then fell, slowly.

Rumi didn’t look back.

She slipped out the door and into the corridor beyond, the walls narrowing around her, the air too thick, the silence too loud.

She needed to get away before the pressure cracked something inside her open.

🦋

The echo of the door shutting behind Rumi seemed to hang in the air longer than it should have.

Silence took the room hostage, heavy and stretching like a shadow across the training floor.

The trunk of wooden weapons stood open and untouched. Its contents—blunted swords, short staffs, weighted daggers—glinted faintly in the filtered sunlight, as if even they understood they’d been brought out too soon.

Zoey stared at it, unmoving.

“I think we messed up,” she said finally, voice quiet but certain, the kind of voice that came after too many thoughts ran in circles without finding peace.

Mira didn’t answer immediately. She stood beside her, watching the same trunk, jaw tight, her hands folded against her chest like she was holding something fragile inside. Her brows were furrowed—not in anger. In something softer, heavier.

From the doorway, Celine’s calm, clinical voice interrupted.

“You didn’t. It was a mature decision. Necessary.”

They both turned toward her. She was already stepping out, her back straight, her presence crisp as ever.

“She’ll understand, in time,” Celine added. “Rumi always does.”

And then she was gone. Just like that.

The door shut again, and this time it felt different—final in a way that made Zoey’s stomach twist.

Zoey exhaled slowly, rubbing her thumb over the hem of her sleeve. “Does that woman ever get tired of sounding like she’s always right?”

Mira huffed, but it wasn’t a laugh. Just air. Just noise to fill the ache.

Zoey tilted her head back slightly, blinking up at the ceiling like it might give her answers.

“She looked so—” Her voice caught. “Rumi looked like we’d betrayed her.”

“She did,” Mira said quietly. “Not angry. Just… cracked.”

“I hate this,” Zoey said, sharper now. “It’s not that I don’t want to go. It’s not even the hunt. It’s just…” Her words trailed, unfinished. She didn’t need to finish them. Mira already understood.

Zoey stepped closer, hands balling at her sides like they wanted something to hold onto. Mira didn’t wait.

She reached out first, threading her fingers gently through Zoey’s and pulling her in, not like a reflex but a habit—well worn, warm.

Zoey leaned her forehead against Mira’s shoulder.

“I wanted her to know we trusted her. That’s all. Not this…” she muttered, muffled in the soft fabric of Mira’s shirt.

“I know,” Mira murmured. She pressed her chin lightly against Zoey’s hair. “We do trust her. But she’s still learning how to be trusted. How to be… followed.”

Zoey laughed, but it was small and sad. “Why does it feel like we touched a bruise we didn’t even know was there?”

Mira held her a little tighter, her fingers brushing the back of Zoey’s wrist like she was drawing invisible circles there. “Because we probably did. And it hurts more when you don’t see it coming.”

Zoey looked up at her, eyes glassy but steady. “She’s not like us.”

“No,” Mira said softly. “But she’s still ours.”

They stood like that for a moment, pressed close, the quiet finally feeling less cold and more like waiting.

“She’s not okay,” Zoey whispered.

“No,” Mira agreed. “But she will be.”

“And if she’s not?”

“Then we stay,” Mira said without hesitation. “And remind her she’s not alone.”

Zoey didn’t say anything more. She just nodded and curled her fingers a little tighter into Mira’s, as if anchoring herself.

Behind them, the weapons in the trunk stood untouched. For now.

Chapter Text

The room was dark when Zoey and Mira stepped in, lit only by slivers of moonlight seeping through the curtains. At first glance, it looked empty. The bed was untouched, neatly made, as if it hadn’t been slept in for days.

It wasn’t until Zoey’s eyes lifted that she saw it—just the faint sway of Rumi’s braid, hanging low from the edge of the hammock strung high between two beams near the ceiling. Almost hidden in the shadows, the rest of her tucked far above, silent and still.

Zoey swallowed. “Rumi?”

No answer. Not a shift, not a breath they could hear.

Mira stood quietly beside her, both of them looking up into the dark where their friend hovered, high and unreachable. Zoey stepped forward a bit, voice low but steady.

“We didn’t say yes because we didn’t trust you,” she said softly. “It was never that.”

“It’s the opposite, actually,” Mira added gently. “We said yes because we do trust you. Because we know that we’re safe with you.”

Still no answer from above. Just the gentle sway of the braid, moving slightly like the weight of her body had shifted. Listening, maybe. Not turning them away, but not coming down either.

“We just…” Zoey glanced at Mira before continuing. “We need to know what we’re fighting. Not to rush things. Not because we want to go charging in. Just… so we don’t have to imagine anymore.”

“So we can choose,” Mira said quietly. “For ourselves.”

There was silence again. But something changed in it.

From the shadows above, they heard the faintest sound. A sigh. The quiet creak of the hammock ropes shifting.

And then Rumi’s voice came, muffled, like it was buried somewhere deep in her chest.

“I didn’t want you to have to choose at all.”

The honesty of it made the air thick with emotion. Zoey blinked hard, stepping closer beneath the hammock.

“But we do. And we want to choose with you, not against you.”

There was another pause.

Then a faint rustle.

Rumi didn’t climb down. Didn’t move to join them. But she shifted slightly in the hammock, one leg draping over the side, her braid falling a little lower like she was relaxing—not much, but enough.

The silence lingered after their words, the room dim and still except for the soft sway of Rumi’s braid hanging down from the high hammock like a line drawn between them and her.

Then, slowly, Rumi spoke. Her voice was quiet, like it had to fight its way out.

“…I kind of get it,” she said, not moving, not coming down. “But… I kind of don’t.”

Zoey and Mira stayed still beneath her, holding the space open.

“I’ve never had friends before,” Rumi continued, each word sounding like it cost her more than she expected. “Not really. Just missions. Just routines. Just expectations. I wasn’t raised to… to talk about feelings or explain things.”

She let out a breath that trembled at the edges.

“The Honmoon chose me at birth. It was decided before I even knew what that meant. I didn’t get to choose. Not my path, not my training, not even when I held a sword for the first time. I was told I was made for this and that was that.”

She shifted slightly, the fabric of the hammock creaking. “And now you two—”

Her voice caught.

“You willingly offer yourselves up for this. You say it’s trust, but all I hear is you choosing what nearly broke me. I just wanted to protect you for as long as I could. Long enough for you to still have choices.”

There was a long beat.

And then Zoey sniffled.

Mira turned instantly, brows snapping together in panic—but Zoey gave her a tiny shake of her head and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “That’s exactly why we trust you,” she whispered. “Because you care that much.”

Rumi didn’t respond, but they could hear her breath catch—just barely.

Mira’s eyes were blazing now, locked on the hammock above them.

“That’s it,” she muttered, glancing at Zoey, then up again. “We’re not doing this half a conversation from a ceiling.”

Before Zoey could ask what she meant, Mira backed up, eyed the wall like it had offended her personally, and launched herself upward.

“Mira, wait—!”

There was an immediate thud, followed by a sharp oof as Mira caught the edge of the hammock, flailed like an overgrown squirrel, and somehow scrambled her way in, limbs awkward and desperate, hair getting in her face.

Rumi yelped at the sudden movement and curled instinctively, but it was already too late—Mira flopped into the hammock with all the grace of a panda falling from a tree.

Silence.

Then Rumi made a strangled noise—half-squeak, half-laugh—and covered her face with her hands. “What—what the hell was that?!”

Mira, tangled in the fabric, grumbled from somewhere near her knees. “A tactical insertion.”

Rumi stared at her, blinking in disbelief. And then, slowly, her shoulders began to shake.

Not with tears.

But with laughter.

It started as a breath, turned into a wheeze, and then burst into a full-bodied, tear-prickling laugh—relief and sorrow crashing together. She pressed her face into the edge of the hammock, trying to muffle it, but failed spectacularly.

“You looked like—like a panda trying to climb a slippery tree,” she choked.

Zoey, still below, gave a watery giggle. “You do kind of look like one right now.”

Mira, triumphant in her ridiculousness, grinned. “Good. Then I’m staying here.”

Rumi wiped her face, eyes still shining, voice softer now. “You guys are ridiculous.”

“We’re your ridiculous people,” Mira said, scooting closer.

Zoey looked up at them, hand resting lightly on the side of the hammock. “And we’re staying. If you’ll let us.”

Rumi didn’t answer right away. She hesitated before deciding something.

“Come up then,” Rumi said, voice low but steadier now, almost like an invitation.

Zoey opened her mouth to answer, but before a single word escaped, Rumi leaned over the edge of the hammock, reached down—and grabbed her by the forearm.

“Wait, wha—” Zoey barely had time to squeak before she was being pulled upward in one clean, fluid motion. Her feet left the ground, her body jolted, and her breath caught in a rush of startled laughter.

“Rumi!” she gasped, half flailing, half laughing, as she was unceremoniously hauled into the hammock like a feather caught by gravity.

Rumi just gave a small shrug, her braid swaying behind her as if it too had something to say. “You hesitated.”

Zoey blinked, flushed pink and breathless. “You launched me.”

“You made a face,” Rumi replied simply, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did.

Mira, already curled awkwardly near Rumi’s side, barked a laugh. “That was less ‘climbing’ and more ‘get over here.’”

“Worked, didn’t it?” Rumi murmured.

And somehow, it did. The three of them ended up tangled together—shoulders bumping, knees overlapping, warmth bleeding into warmth. There was barely enough room, the hammock swayed dangerously, but none of them cared.

They lay there in the hammock, quiet for a long moment. Breathing.

Then Zoey shifted slightly, her voice barely a whisper between them. “What’s it like?”

Rumi didn’t ask what. She didn’t have to.

Her answer came immediately, sharp and honest, like it had lived under her tongue all along.

“It’s awful.”

That one word hung heavy in the air before Rumi continued, her voice even, almost too calm—like someone describing something she couldn’t let herself feel anymore.

“Demons are wrong. Cruel. Monstrous in ways that don’t make sense. They lie when they get the chance. They deceive. They’ll beg or laugh or cry if they think it’ll break your focus. Some look almost normal—close enough to pass. But if you look close, their patterns give them away. Always.”

Her fingers twitched slightly, as if remembering holding a weapon, not Zoey’s arm.

“But most… don’t. Some are big. Some are fast. Some are nothing but teeth and claws. Some carry blades fused into their bones. Others just move wrong, like they’re stitched together from nightmares that never fit.”

She paused. Mira and Zoey didn’t move. They were listening too closely to interrupt.

“They don’t bleed. Not like we do. When you kill them, they evaporate. Most of the time. In a kind of pink mist. Light, cold. Like they were never really there. But…”

Her voice dropped an octave.

“There are always exceptions.”

The silence afterward felt heavier than before. The air seemed too still, the night pressing in from the window with a kind of hush.

Zoey stared at the ceiling. “That’s… not what I thought.”

Mira swallowed. Her brows had drawn together in that way they did when she was holding back too many emotions at once. “They sound like nightmares.”

“They are,” Rumi said simply. “And they don’t wait until you’re ready.”

Zoey nodded slowly, eyes shining, lips pressed together in something between fear and understanding. “Then we really do need to know.”

Rumi didn’t respond at first. Just reached out and squeezed Zoey’s hand where it lay between them, grounding her.

“I know,” she said at last. Quiet. Tired. Honest. “I just wish you didn’t have to.”

The silence had stretched again—comfortably, then not.

Mira’s voice was soft, careful. “When did you see your first demon?”

Rumi stilled. Her hand, resting lightly on Zoey’s, went tense.

“I… I don’t remember.”

Zoey’s breath caught in her throat. Mira tilted her head.

“I mean,” Rumi tried again, her voice tight now, “I think I must’ve been… really young. A toddler maybe? I don’t know. Celine always brought me along to hunts. I just remember being small. Not even knowing what I was looking at.”

She swallowed, the memory thick in her throat like smoke.

“She used to tell me not to be afraid. Said they could smell it. That I’d make a better hunter if I didn’t cry.”

Her voice didn’t crack. It was too quiet, too flat, to even get that far.

Mira and Zoey shared a look above her, over her half-hidden form in the hammock. Then, without speaking, they both shifted closer—gently, as if they were afraid she’d vanish if they moved too fast.

They took her hands, one on each side. Mira’s grip was steady and warm. Zoey’s a soft wrap of fingers, gentle but certain.

Mira leaned in, voice barely a breath. “Rumi… are you okay?”

Rumi blinked. “What?”

Zoey looked down at her, heart visibly in her eyes. “We mean… with Celine. The way she talks to you. The way she’s around you.” She hesitated, then continued, “It doesn’t feel right.”

Mira nodded. “It doesn’t look right either. The way you shrink back sometimes. Or how she talks like you’re not even in the room.

Zoey hesitated. Mira picked up the thread.

“Have you ever thought that maybe… the way she trained you—wasn’t normal?” they asked carefully.

Rumi blinked slowly. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Mira said carefully, “do you remember ever… doing something dangerous? As a kid?”

Rumi laughed. “I was a huntress. That kind of comes with the job, doesn’t it?”

Zoey frowned. “Yeah, but like… dangerous for no reason. Or without knowing what you were doing?”

Rumi was quiet, thinking, like someone checking a weather report instead of their childhood.

“I guess?” she offered. “I mean, I was always on missions. Always training. Sometimes I didn’t know what we were walking into. But that’s just how it goes.”

Mira exchanged a look with Zoey, then leaned forward slightly. “Do you remember the time Celine threw that dagger near your head during drills?”

Rumi shrugged. “Yeah. That was reflex training. She said I needed to trust my instincts.”

“And the time she made you sleep outside after you missed a strike?” Zoey added, voice quieter.

“That was… about discipline,” Rumi said, though the words tasted strange in her mouth now. “It’s not a big deal. That’s how I learned. I had to be ready. Always.”

“You still are,” Mira said gently. “You move like you’re always expecting a fight.”

Rumi blinked again, slower this time. The truth was harder to deflect when it came from them.

“I’m just… conditioned,” she admitted. “To stay alert. To strike if I need to. That’s how she raised me. That’s what being a huntress means.”

“But you were a kid,” Zoey whispered. “Not a soldier.”

Rumi didn’t answer right away. A quiet creaked in the hammock ropes. Her voice came low.

“I didn’t know there was a difference.”

The words sat heavy in the room.

And for once, Rumi didn’t try to laugh it off.

“Not everything between me and Celine was… perfect,” Rumi murmured into the quiet, her voice barely a ripple. “But I always thought that was just the way it was. The work came first. There was never time to make it soft.”

The hammock swayed gently under their combined weight, the three of them curled awkwardly together—Zoey tucked against her left side, Mira draped over her right, a mess of limbs and warmth. One of Mira’s legs dangled over the edge; Zoey’s fingers had found Rumi’s braid and were absently running through it.

Rumi exhaled.

“But now we’re a team,” she said. “The three of us. And I think Celine’s changed. Or she’s trying to. She’s nicer lately, even with me sometimes. I keep telling myself it’s because… maybe she doesn’t have to worry about me so much anymore.”

A pause.

“I really want that to be true.”

But in her chest, she knew it wasn’t. Not exactly. If it were just worry, Celine wouldn’t have stopped going with her on hunts. Not after she got her weapon. Not at thirteen. Not when things got harder, not easier.

But she didn’t say any of that.

Zoey shifted against her, cheek pressing softly to Rumi’s shoulder. “You don’t have to explain it,” she whispered. “We get it.”

“We just…” Mira murmured on her other side, “don’t want you to carry all of it alone.”

Rumi blinked, throat tight.

“I’m used to it,” she said, almost a laugh. “Carrying it, I mean.”

“Well,” Zoey said, her voice thick, “you don’t have to anymore.”

The silence was warm this time, not heavy. The kind that wrapped around them instead of pressing down.

“Also,” Mira added, eyes closed, voice already edging toward sleep, “this hammock is too high to leave anyway. So we’re staying.”

“Terrible excuses,” Rumi muttered, but she didn’t push them off. She didn’t move at all.

She just let herself stay in the middle of them, held on both sides. And for once, she let the weight of someone else be a comfort instead of a burden.

Chapter Text

They had a week.

A soft, surprising kind of week where the world didn’t feel like it was waiting to crack beneath them. Celine trained Mira and Zoey with the same sharp efficiency as always—but even gentler now. Kinder. She’d always been kind to them, really. Patient. Encouraging. She praised Zoey’s quick reflexes, Mira’s balance, corrected without humiliation. That kindness had never extended to Rumi before.

But now, it did. A little.

Not much. Just the minimum, honestly—no shouting, no bruises that lingered, no cold silence when a mistake was made—but to Rumi, it was enough. Enough to lower her shoulders when she walked into a room. Enough to not expect pain every time she made a wrong move. Enough to let herself breathe.

And her girls—her friends—made it easier.

Zoey and Mira were warmth and light and softness. They listened when Rumi spoke, waited when she couldn’t. They made space for her without asking for anything in return. They trusted her. And slowly, almost without realizing it, Rumi had started to trust them back.

They had sleepovers nearly every other night, always ending up in Rumi’s room, half-buried in blankets, limbs tangled, voices whispering in the dark until sleep came. Zoey always smelled like strawberries. Mira like pine and something herbal. Their laughter filled corners Rumi hadn’t even realized were empty.

Sometimes, Celine would glance over when they all disappeared into Rumi’s room together, her expression unreadable. But she never stopped them. Never commented. That, too, felt like a small miracle.

And Rumi started to imagine a future. A future that wasn’t built entirely on pain and combat and silent meals alone. A future with music and teammates and warmth. A future that felt—just maybe—a little like hope.

Everything felt like it might finally be okay.

Until it wasn’t.

It began innocently.

Just before another sleepover could start—a Friday night tradition now, something Rumi quietly treasured—Celine had asked to speak with her alone. Her tone had been light. Just a quick chat, she said. Some ideas about tweaking training sessions, maybe even new concepts for a performance. It sounded normal. Good, even.

Rumi had felt… happy.

She was being included. Listened to. She mattered.

When Mira gently offered, “Want us to come with you?” Rumi had smiled, heart full, and said, “It’s fine. I’ll be back soon.”

Because things were fine. Celine had been better. She smiled more. She looked Rumi in the eyes now—really looked. That had to mean something, right?

So when Celine didn’t lead her to the office, but to the woods behind the compound, Rumi didn’t question it. They walked deeper into the trees, fireflies beginning to flicker in the fading light. The night air was calm. Still.

Everything was fine.

Celine stopped abruptly. The shift in the air was instant—like the earth had taken a breath and held it. When she turned, there was no softness left in her face. Not even a trace of the kindness she’d worn so carefully these past few weeks. Her features were frozen, her posture rigid, as if every part of her was resisting something unseen.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, and though her voice was flat, it carried an edge that made the night colder.

Rumi blinked, disoriented. “What… do you mean?”

Celine’s jaw tightened. “I mean Mira. I mean Zoey. The sleepovers. The way they sit too close. The way you let them touch you.”

Rumi froze, confusion rippling through her.

“I—” she started, unsure. “You said you wanted to talk about training. I thought this was—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Celine cut in, sharper now, voice cracking with something she refused to name. “Don’t play innocent.”

The trees around them stood silent. Watching. Rumi’s pulse thrummed like a drum in her ears.

“I see the way they cling to you,” Celine said, her voice thick now, like it weighed more than it should. “And I see how you let them. You’ve let them in.”

“I—” Rumi tried again, but the words felt too big. “They’re my team. My friends. We’re just—bonding. That’s what teams do.”

“It’s not just that,” Celine hissed, the words trembling slightly—like something inside her was fraying. “You know what’s happening. You feel it. Don’t lie to me.”

Rumi stepped back, breath shallow. “Celine, I haven’t—”

“You’re a half-demon,” Celine said, and this time the word landed like a slap. “You can’t afford this kind of closeness. You can’t afford to pretend. Every night they spend with you is dangerous. Every touch a risk. You can’t let this keep happening.”

“But I trust them,” Rumi whispered. “And I think—if I told them—”

Celine’s face twisted. “You think they’ll still look at you the same? That they’ll stay when they see what’s under that skin?” She stepped closer, the shame in her eyes sharp and clashing with the bitterness in her tone. “You think this will end in anything but ruin?”

Rumi’s chest squeezed painfully. “I don’t think I’m ruining anything,” she said, voice cracking. “I think… I’m trying to live. Just a little.”

Something deep flickered in Celine’s gaze then. Something more than anger. Guilt. Shame. Fear. Not for Rumi, but of what she might become. Of what it meant—that the bond Rumi was building with the others was real. That it might become something more. That it already had.

And Celine hated it. Hated that it had slipped past her control.

“I warned you,” she said quietly now, voice thick. “You’re not one of them. You can never be. You are a demon.“

The shame hit like a blade.

And the Honmoon felt it.

The heat flared at once, pulsing through Rumi’s shoulders and up her neck. Her skin stung—no, burned. The purple-black patterns etched into her skin began to shift, elongating, crawling toward her collarbones like living ink. Her Honmoon strained, as if trying to contain a storm swelling too fast.

The pressure inside her rose—pain and humiliation and something she didn’t know how to name twisting together.

“You need to pull back,” Celine said, one last time, the control in her voice shattering at the edges. “Before you hurt them.”

But Rumi couldn’t speak.

Her throat had closed.

The pain in her shoulders spread down her spine, wrapping like vines in fire. She held still, not out of obedience, but because moving might have made everything split open.

Celine said nothing more.

She didn’t ask if Rumi was okay. Didn’t offer comfort or even acknowledgment of what she’d just ignited.

And deep inside Rumi, where her heart beat behind cracked walls, something fragile fractured. Silently.

Not her body.

Not even the Honmoon.

But something harder to mend.

Her hope.

Celine left without a word. No glance back. No flicker of regret. Just the sound of her boots fading into the trees like she’d never been there at all.

Rumi stayed where she was.

She couldn’t have moved even if she’d tried. Her knees wouldn’t listen. Her lungs were locked. And her shoulders—her pattern—felt like it was peeling her open from the inside out.

The burn had only worsened.

Lines of deep purple and black carved a slow, searing path along her skin, crawling from the base of her spine across her shoulders and down her arms. It felt like her flesh was melting, tearing in two—but there was no blood. Only the heat, and the pain, and the wrongness humming beneath her skin like something alive and angry.

She wanted to scream.

But she didn’t. She just stood there, jaw clenched, hands shaking, the weight of Celine’s words pressing down harder than the pain.

Maybe she’s right.

The thought slithered in, uninvited.

Maybe Celine was right. Maybe her demon side—the patterns etched into her body since birth—agreed with her. Maybe this was punishment. A reminder. Of what she was. What she wasn’t allowed to be.

And what she could never have.

She didn’t want to pull away from Mira and Zoey. The idea hurt more than her skin did. She didn’t want to go back to cold beds and silence and flinching under every kind word like it was a lie. She didn’t want to lose them—the only softness she’d ever known.

But the patterns were spreading. The Honmoon was pulsing.

And if it kept going—if it kept showing—they’d see it. Sooner or later, they’d see the truth: the markings, the power coiled beneath her skin, the pieces that weren’t quite human. Maybe Mira and Zoey would understand.

But maybe they wouldn’t.

Maybe they’d look at her the same way Celine always had.

Like she was a danger. A mistake.

A monster wrapped in skin pretending to belong.

She sank to her knees in the dirt, shoulders shaking as her breath came too fast, too shallow. Her hands dug into the earth, grounding her, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped.

It wasn’t fair.

Not to them—but not to her, either.

She hadn’t chosen this. Hadn’t chosen the patterns or the power or the shame braided into every word Celine ever spoke.

But it didn’t matter.

She was still a half-demon.

And no matter how kind Mira and Zoey were… maybe kindness wouldn’t be enough.

🦋

The front door creaked open just as Mira was brushing Zoey’s shoulder with a laugh—quiet, unguarded, theirs. The kind of laugh that made the night feel safe.

But that laugh died in Mira’s throat the moment she saw who stepped inside.

Celine. Alone.

Not a twig on her coat. Not a strand of hair out of place. Just that cool, polished composure that never seemed to crack unless she wanted it to.

Mira straightened, eyes narrowing. “Where’s Rumi?”

Zoey turned quickly, pulse picking up.

Celine paused, as if surprised by the question. Then smiled. “She stayed out a little longer. You know how she is. Brooding. It’s nothing serious.”

Something in her tone made the hairs rise on the back of Mira’s neck. Too light. Too rehearsed.

“She would’ve said something,” Mira said flatly.

“She always says something,” Zoey echoed, a thread of worry creeping in. “Even if it’s just a nod.”

Celine waved a hand dismissively, stepping out of her boots. “She didn’t want you to worry. You two always hover.”

That was supposed to be a joke.

Neither of them laughed.

Something in the room shifted then. A pressure. A pulse.

Zoey staggered slightly, grabbing the doorframe.

Mira inhaled sharply, her hand flying to her chest.

The Honmoon stirred.

Not loud, not showy—just a ripple of energy slipping through them like a cold current in still water. A thrum of something old waking up. Stretching.

Celine stilled. Then smiled again—too wide. “Perfect timing.”

Mira’s eyes snapped to her. “What do you mean?”

“There’s a rift,” Celine said, already moving to the weapons bench. “East side. Small breach. I was just about to check it.”

She pulled out two iron daggers wrapped in velvet, extending them with care—like offering a gift. Or bait.

“You said you wanted to see one, didn’t you? Now’s your chance.”

Zoey’s fingers hovered over the hilt, then stopped. “Shouldn’t we wait for Rumi?”

“She’ll already be there,” Celine replied smoothly, not missing a beat. “She always is.”

“That’s not—” Mira stepped forward. “She’s not like that. She tells us. She wouldn’t just vanish.”

Celine’s smile thinned. “Sometimes she gets caught in her own head. You know how she is—she doesn’t always think about how things feel to others.”

That landed like a slap, though Celine’s voice stayed soft.

“You’re reading too much into it,” she continued. “Rumi’s fine. I trained her myself, remember? If anyone can handle a small rift, it’s her.”

Zoey exchanged a glance with Mira.

Something was wrong.

The way Celine avoided their eyes now. The offhand tone. The too-perfect calm.

And the Honmoon still humming, like a tuning fork struck somewhere deep beneath the surface of the world.

Mira reached for her dagger. “We’re coming.”

Celine simply nodded. “Of course.”

Zoey’s hand wrapped around hers too—but the metal felt heavier than it should have. Not from weight.

From dread.

Because whatever had happened out there in the dark—

Rumi hadn’t come back.

And neither of them believed it was because she wanted space.

🦋

They ran.

Branches snapped back into their faces, the forest blurring past in streaks of bark and shadow, the moonlight barely enough to guide their feet. Zoey and Mira chased after Celine, who moved ahead with the ease of someone who always knew where the trouble was. The only thing louder than the pounding of their hearts was the sound ahead—an inhuman screeching, animalistic and wet, like something being dragged across metal and gravel at once.

The air grew warmer as they sprinted, thick and copper-tanged. It clung to their lungs. The forest should have been silent at this hour. Instead, it trembled.

“There!” Celine called sharply, not even glancing back.

Zoey’s breath hitched. The sound was closer now—many sounds. Skittering limbs. Low growls. A high-pitched hiss like steam from a dying machine.

Then: a pulse.

It rippled through the air like pressure from a thunderclap without sound—just a sensation across the skin. Zoey staggered mid-stride. Mira winced and grabbed at her temple.

“What was that?” Mira gasped.

“The barrier,” Zoey said. “Something’s wrong with it—”

Celine’s voice came then, smooth and too calm. “Perfect timing.”

They both shot her a look. That wasn’t right. None of this felt right.

“We should wait for Rumi,” Mira said, breathless but firm.

Zoey nodded. “She’d want to be with us—”

“She’s already at the rift,” Celine said briskly, pulling two iron daggers from her belt and pressing them into their hands. “She always is. You’ll see.”

Then the trees broke open.

They reached the clearing, and all at once the world changed.

At the center stood the rift. A wound in the air itself, low to the ground like something gnawed open with teeth instead of magic. Its edges shimmered pink and red, not beautiful but feverish, pulsing like a heartbeat too fast. It glowed like something infected.

And crawling out of it—creatures.

Zoey and Mira stumbled to a halt, their eyes widening with immediate, bone-deep dread. It wasn’t just fear. It was instinct. Their bodies knew these things were wrong even if their minds hadn’t caught up yet.

The demons were small, malformed, almost humanoid in shape—but only if viewed at a glance. Some dragged twisted limbs behind them. Others twitched violently as if every motion was pain. Their skin shimmered in sickly hues—slick black, raw meat red, grey-green. Some had limbs too long, bending backwards. Others had no eyes. Or too many. All had claws. All had teeth. More teeth than anything should ever have.

The air stank of hot copper and spoiled fruit, like blood mixed with rot and sugar.

Zoey’s breath caught in her throat. “This is what she fights?”

“They’re vile,” Mira whispered, voice shaking. “Why aren’t they stopping?”

Then something sliced through the demons.

Clean. Effortless. A blade moved like silver lightning.

From the fog of pink mist stepped Rumi.

Except—she didn’t step.

She moved, like something windborne. Her sword arced with brutal grace, clean and silent. Her braid whipped around her with every turn, every spin. Each strike was a flourish—elegant and devastating. A demon lunged—gone in a pink vapor cloud. Another crept behind her—she twisted, low, and split it with a backhanded sweep. Gone.

Again. And again. And again.

She was a closed circuit of motion—no hesitation, no flinching, just flow. Not a wasted breath. Not a missed beat.

Zoey’s hand tightened around the dagger.

“She’s not fighting,” she murmured. “She’s… dancing.”

And it was true. It was too rhythmic, too precise, too perfect to be anything else. The way she moved was almost hypnotic. Terrifying, but beautiful. Her figure carved through the clearing like ink through water. Each strike painted the night anew in clouds of glowing mist.

“She doesn’t even see us,” Mira said, watching Rumi’s face.

It was blank. Calm, even. Not emotionless—but far away. As if some part of her had retreated behind her own eyes. As if she wasn’t present, only reacting.

“She’s in the trance,” Celine said again, arms crossed, voice void of concern. “When she’s like this, there’s no room for anything else. It’s the Honmoon—makes her a weapon first, girl second.”

Zoey turned toward her slowly. “Why was she here alone?”

“She always finds the rifts first,” Celine said. “She’s faster than any of us. She knows what to do.”

It wasn’t enough of an answer.

Zoey’s gaze returned to Rumi, who was cutting down a line of demons without missing a step. It was like her body knew the rhythm of the rift—where each demon would appear before it even did.

They hadn’t seen her patterns. Not yet.

But something moved under her skin. Something was coiling, like fire hiding behind flesh.

Mira clenched her jaw. “She’s not okay.”

Celine didn’t respond.

And in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by vapor and echoes of hissing death, Rumi kept moving. Her braid snapped like a banner. Her sword gleamed under the haze. Her feet never faltered.

Not once.

🦋

Rumi felt the rift before she saw it.

A pulse, like a shiver through the marrow of her bones. The sensation didn’t come from outside—it bloomed within her. A low, insistent hum behind her ribs, vibrating her spine, anchoring itself to the web of scars and silver that laced her back and shoulders. The Honmoon had stirred.

She had just finished speaking with Celine—her voice still echoing in her ears like something distant, dulled by shame. Her mind was a haze of confusion, guilt, and the burning simmer of pain crawling beneath her skin where her patterns had spread. But when the rift called, everything else fell away.

It always did.

Rumi turned toward the east without thinking. Her body already moved before her mind could catch up. The heat rising from her patterns buzzed into a sharp alertness, her breathing settling into a rhythm that was not quite hers. The weight of her blade, her breath, the cool air—she absorbed it all without conscious thought.

When she reached the clearing, the world narrowed.

The rift yawned open in the dirt like a mouth that shouldn’t exist. Pinkish-red light pulsed out of it in waves, staining the trees in an unnatural glow. The sound was low and guttural, almost like breathing—but not. Something was being born there. Something many-limbed and wrong.

Demons crawled out in pairs and trios, hissing and squelching, their forms twitching, not fully solid. Some dragged themselves, others leapt with insectile ease. Sharp edges. Twisting joints. Grinning jaws. Her eyes registered all of it in less than a blink.

And still—no fear. No hesitation.

Only instinct.

Her foot pressed forward. The sword slid from between the layers of the Honmoon like it had a will of its own. She stepped in.

Then her thoughts left her.

Not all at once—but in pieces, like a cloak slipping from her shoulders. Worry, shame, doubt—they scattered like birds at the first swing of her blade.

Strike.

Twist.

Turn.

Breathe.

Her body moved in perfect cadence. She didn’t think about where the blade should go—she simply knew. She didn’t plan. Didn’t react. She flowed. The edge of her sword sang with precision, the weight of it balanced like a second limb. One demon rushed her—she ducked, pivoted, brought the blade up through its chest.

Pink mist exploded in a burst.

Another lunged from the side—gone before it even landed. Her braid followed behind her in a whip of dark motion, her feet gliding over the blood-wet grass without ever sticking. She spun again. A trio closed in—gone in a single sweep, the arc of her movement cleaner than a breath.

She should have felt fear.

But she didn’t feel anything.

The world around her dulled, became background. She didn’t hear the trees creak or the demons shriek. Didn’t feel the blood mist that touched her skin. Her chest burned, her muscles flexed, but it wasn’t pain. It wasn’t exhaustion. It was momentum.

Somewhere deep inside, her mind hovered—watching.

Observing.

Disembodied.

Like her consciousness had curled into a small corner of her body and was simply letting the rest of her do what it had been made to do. What it had been trained to do since before she could walk.

Kill. Cleanly. Without feeling.

And still the demons came. Still she moved.

And if she heard her name—if familiar voices broke into the clearing—she didn’t register them.

She was in the Honmoon‘s rhythm now.

No words.

No doubts.

Only motion.

🦋

The demons came less now.

Their wave had crested, receding into flickers of twitching limbs and shuddering snarls, the rift’s glow pulsing slower—dimmer. Rumi remained at its heart, movements razor-sharp, even as her braid clung to her damp neck, the air around her heavy with pink mist and scorched earth.

But danger hadn’t passed.

Not completely.

From beneath the churned dirt near the clearing’s edge, something slithered. Silent. Intent.

A lean, oil-slick demon with slatted black eyes and claws like rusted bone burrowed through the roots and rot—drawn not to the center of the chaos, but to the smallest figure on the outskirts.

Zoey.

She stood just a few paces behind Mira, the weight of everything still sinking in. Her gaze was fixed on Rumi, stunned by the raw force she’d just witnessed. Her dagger trembled in her hand, more symbolic than useful.

She didn’t see the demon rise behind her.

It unfurled from the soil like a shadow made flesh, rearing up silently—claws poised to strike, jaws yawning in anticipation.

But Mira saw it.

“MOVE!” she screamed, hand already reaching for her dagger, panic slicing through her voice.

Zoey turned, eyes widening—

Too slow.

The demon struck.

And then—

A blur.

A whistle of wind.

A sharp thunk.

A silver sword embedded itself into the demon’s skull mid-lunge, snapping its head backward with a sickening crack. The thing spasmed, twitched, then dropped—limp and dissolving into pink vapor.

Zoey gasped, spinning to see where it had come from.

Rumi.

She had thrown her sword from across the clearing, arm still extended in perfect form, face unreadable. The mist clung to her like a second skin. Her chest heaved, but her expression was eerily still.

But now—she was unarmed.

And the demons knew it.

The rift pulsed one final time, as if in recognition, and then the last of the demons surged. They didn’t stagger or crawl this time—they charged, drawn to the moment of vulnerability like carrion to blood.

Ten.

Twelve.

Too many.

They barreled toward her in a single, monstrous wave.

And Rumi… didn’t run.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise her arms. Didn’t even brace.

She simply stood there.

Mira and Zoey screamed at once. Mira hurled her dagger in desperation, eyes locked on Rumi’s still figure. Zoey followed, flinging hers with trembling hands. Mira’s blade flew wide, clattering uselessly into the grass. Zoey’s actually hit—but it bounced off the demon’s thick hide, barely leaving a scratch.

“Celine!” Mira shouted, voice cracking. “Do something! She has no weapon—she’s going to—”

“She doesn’t need saving,” Celine said coolly behind them, not moving. Her tone was distant. Emotionless. “Just watch.”

The demons were nearly upon her.

And suddenly Rumi moved.

Not with the poise of a trained Huntress. Not with the grace of Celine’s deadly elegance. No sword. No chant. No plan.

Just her.

She launched into motion like a spark igniting dry grass—sudden, merciless, and unstoppable.

Her foot slammed into the ground, and she spun low, her leg sweeping in a wide, brutal arc. Two demons caught the full force—bones shattered with an audible crack, and their bodies hurled sideways into the trees. One struck a trunk so hard the bark split, its inky form crumpling midair and vanishing in a pop of pink mist.

Another lunged from the right.

She didn’t even look.

Her elbow shot backward with lethal precision, collapsing its throat with a single blow. The demon’s screech turned into a gurgle as she grabbed it by the neck and flung it across the clearing. It bounced once—twice—and then tumbled, limp, back into the rift.

She didn’t pause.

Didn’t hesitate.

Another tried to climb her back—too slow. Rumi grabbed its wrist, twisted sharply, and threw it over her shoulder with a sickening crunch. As its body spun mid-air, she stepped forward and kicked.

Her boot connected with its chest in a devastating, full-force blow.

The impact sent the creature flying—shattering against a distant tree like pottery. Its pieces dissolved instantly, pink mist lingering in the air like smoke.

And still—more came.

She was drenched in sweat. Her braid had half-unraveled, wild strands sticking to her cheeks. Blood—hers or not—splattered her arms. Her breathing was shallow, sharp.

Then one slipped past her guard.

It lunged from below, teeth flashing—and bit into her side.

Hard.

It should have made her scream.

But Rumi didn’t flinch.

Her expression didn’t change. Her arms didn’t even tense.

She looked down at the thing latched to her ribs with cold indifference.

She kicked it.

A sharp, surgical, brutal motion—shin colliding with its skull.

The demon didn’t just fall back—it flew, tearing Rumis flesh with it. Its body snapped like a whip in the air before slamming into the earth and skidding several feet. By the time it stopped twitching, the pink mist was already curling from its corpse.

She didn’t even glance at the wound. The blood. The pain. It was like her body barely registered it.

Like her mind had… left.

Her fists cracked bone. Her knees shattered sternums. Her feet crushed necks. She moved like an avalanche—unstoppable, unthinking, feral. There was no rhythm anymore, only instinct. Only violence.

Zoey suddenly gasped.

Mira saw it too.

It was her eyes.

In the strobing pink glow of the rift, Rumi’s eyes caught the light and held it—an unnatural, amber gleam. Not reflected.

Lit.

For a moment too long to ignore.

The rest of her still looked human. Her hands, her face, her posture. But her gaze—

It wasn’t hers anymore.

There was no fear in her.

No urgency.

Only stillness.

Only control.

And then—

A pulse.

Low. Final. Heavy as thunder beneath the skin.

The rift behind her flickered once, pulsing outward like a dying heartbeat. The edges pulled inward, pink light twisting, collapsing in a spiral of searing heat and sound. Air bent around it—then snapped shut with a deafening crack.

Silence.

The forest held its breath.

The pink mist hovered—glowing, ghostlike—before slowly dissolving into the breeze.

And Rumi stood in the center.

Unmoving.

Her hands were empty. Her hair clung to her neck, drenched in sweat. Blood soaked her side where the demon had bitten her, but she didn’t touch it.

Didn’t feel it.

Her chest rose and fell slowly.

Her shoulders trembled—not from pain, but from still-held tension, like she hadn’t fully come back to herself.

And her eyes—

That amber light still lingered.

Not to bright. Not to loud.

But there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Zoey and Mira stood frozen, breath caught in their throats.

In that moment, they knew three things with terrible clarity.

Rumi had just saved their lives.
She hadn’t used a weapon to do it.
And whatever it was that had moved through her—
—it wasn’t entirely human.

Chapter Text

Zoey and Mira were out of their minds.

Not from Rumi’s eyes.
Not from the way she’d torn through the demons like she was made of fire and steel.
Not even from the fact she had fought them alone, without even flinching.

It was the blood.

Rumi was bleeding—badly. A gash along her side, ragged and raw, still weeping crimson. The tear in her skin looked brutal, but worse was her expression:

She hadn’t even looked at it.

Her gaze remained fixed on the rift that had just closed. Eyes sharp, focused, waiting—as if it might burst open again at any second and bring more monsters with it. As if she were still inside the fight.

Mira stumbled from the edge of the trees first, boots crunching over disturbed earth and bone-dust.

“Rumi!” she called, her voice cracking. “Are you—?”

She stopped herself. Her stomach twisted.

Of course Rumi wasn’t okay.

It was a stupid question.

But Rumi turned toward her slowly, her head tilting slightly to the side, and the look on her face—

—like she was seeing Mira, and also not. Like her body was here, but the rest of her was somewhere else entirely.

Zoey came next, pushing past branches and sprinting forward until she stood right in front of Rumi. Her breath came fast and uneven. Her hands hovered inches from Rumi’s wound, eyes wide, horrified.

“You’re bleeding,” she whispered, heart pounding. “Oh god, Rumi—your side—why aren’t you saying anything?”

But Rumi didn’t answer.
Not even to Zoey’s trembling voice.

She just blinked—slowly. Distantly. As if the words were reaching her through water.

The blood was seeping through her shirt. Her breathing was ragged, but steady. Her body swayed slightly.

And still—nothing.

Then Celine stepped out of the shadows.

Her movements were calm. Too calm.

“Well,” she said, her tone dry and pointed. “Now that you’ve seen them up close… What do you girls think of demons?”

Mira and Zoey turned as one, still buzzing with adrenaline and panic. The question came like a slap.

“They’re monsters,” Mira spat, without hesitation.

Zoey nodded quickly. “They shouldn’t be allowed to exist. If we have to kill every single one of them—” she glanced back at the bloodied mist clinging to the ground, “—then we will. We have to.”

They meant it in defense.
They meant it to be brave.
They meant it to be strong.

But Rumi heard something else.

Her ears were still ringing, and the ground under her boots still felt unsteady, but the words slid into her mind like blades:
They shouldn’t exist.
We will kill them all.
They shouldn’t be allowed to live.

Celine turned to them, smiling faintly. She stepped forward, tilting her head in that mock-curious way she always had when she was winding someone up.

“And if you ever found out someone had demon blood?” she asked, gently. “Would it change how you see them?”

Zoey frowned, confused. “I mean… yeah? That’s dangerous. Isn’t that what we’re training against?”

Mira looked thoughtful, but still wary. “It depends, right? But demons lie. So you’d… never really know.”

Celine hummed softly. “Mm. Exactly.”

It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t cruel.
It was worse.

It was truthful. Or it sounded like it.

And Rumi—
Rumi heard every word like it was law. Like it was written into her skin.

She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. Her side burned, but it felt far away.

And something else inside her—

Agreed.

Because they didn’t know.

They didn’t know what she was.
And still, they said those things.
Still, they meant them.

So what would happen if they did know?

She didn’t need to imagine it.

Celine had already painted the picture.
And Rumi, silent and hurting, simply believed it.

Because no one corrected it.
Because no one even looked at her.

Only the blood.
Only the rift.
Only the demons.

And so—
Her silence folded around her like armor.

And no one noticed her slipping away.

Celine watched her.

Watched the way Rumi stood too still, her arms limp at her sides, the blood from her side dripping in slow, steady patterns onto the earth like a second pulse.

There was no defiance in her posture now.
No fire in her stance.
Just… resignation.

Celine smiled faintly.

“Well then,” she said, brushing invisible dust from her sleeves, “we should head back. That wound won’t clean itself.”

She didn’t wait for agreement. She just turned and walked.

Rumi didn’t move at first.

Then—without a word, without even glancing at the girls—she followed. One slow, dragging step at a time. Her body stumbling slightly. Her braid, once a sharp streak in motion, hung heavy behind her like a burden. She walked like someone walking away from herself.

She didn’t reach for Mira’s hand.
She didn’t brush Zoey’s shoulder.
She didn’t look at either of them.

Just followed after Celine, silent and frayed, like a ghost trailing its tether.

Celine didn’t look back.

Not once.

Behind them, the forest stood quiet again, the ground soaked in remnants of ash and demon rot. Only one thing still moved:

The thin, uneven trail of Rumi’s blood.

Zoey stood frozen. Her fists clenched, her knuckles white.

Mira stared at the trail, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, like she was about to say something—but no words came.

They looked at each other. And in that shared silence, realization hit like cold water.

They’d fucked up.

Not by being scared of the demons.
Not even by being wrong.

But by not seeing her.

They should’ve grabbed her arm. Stopped the bleeding. Cared more about her than their own adrenaline-fueled certainty.

They should’ve known Celine’s questions weren’t for understanding, but for dividing.

But they hadn’t.
And now, Rumi was walking away.

Blood in her wake.

And all they had left were the pieces of a moment they didn’t know they had broken—until it was already too late.

They trailed behind in silence.

Rumi didn’t speak.

She didn’t even look back.

Every step she took was heavy, uneven—her boots dragging just enough to make their stomachs knot tighter. Blood still seeped through the torn fabric of her side, painting her shirt dark and tacky. Her braid had come loose, hair clinging to the sweat on her back and neck, her movements slower now, heavier, and yet… she didn’t make a sound.

Celine led the way, her pace swift, indifferent. She never turned around, not once. No glance over her shoulder. No comment on the girl barely standing behind her.

They reached the infirmary doors, and Celine finally paused. Her voice came clipped and efficient, already tinged with dismissal. “You two can go now.”

Mira stepped forward immediately, refusing. “Wait—no. We’re staying. She’s hurt. We can help—”

“She’ll be fine,” Celine cut in. “She needs rest. That’s all.”

Zoey’s heart thudded, unsure. “Rumi?” she asked, voice tentative.

Rumi looked at them.

Finally.

Her eyes were dull. Empty. Her lips parted for a second before she forced a small smile into place—so faint it might’ve been imagined. Her voice, when it came, was brittle. “You should go. I’ll be fine.”

Then softer. The way someone might talk about a lie they’ve told too many times.
“I always am.”

It hit like ice.

The words hung between them for a beat too long. And Mira didn’t move.

Zoey noticed it first—how Mira’s hands were clenched. How her jaw set tighter. She didn’t believe it. Neither of them did.

But Zoey’s hand reached out, gently curling around Mira’s fingers. Not dragging. Just grounding.

“Come on,” she said, her voice cracking slightly.

Mira hesitated a second longer.

Then nodded.

They left. Slowly. Each step away from the infirmary feeling worse than the last.

Back in their room, the silence was thick enough to drown in.

Mira sat on the floor with her knees pulled to her chest, eyes unfocused and arms wrapped around herself like a shield. Zoey stood by the edge of their bed, pacing in small, uneven circles, glancing at the door every so often—as if Rumi might walk through it. As if they hadn’t just watched her bleed down the hallway in someone else’s footsteps.

“She’s not okay,” Mira said finally, her voice raw, like it had been scraped against stone. “That was… that wasn’t okay. She was barely standing, and she still tried to make us feel better.”

Zoey shook her head slowly. “She looked… not tired. Not angry. Just gone.”

Mira’s voice cracked. “She didn’t even look at us properly.”

Neither of them said anything for a long stretch of time.

Then Mira, hesitant: “Zoey… something’s not right. With her. Not just tonight.”

Zoey stopped pacing. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking that, too.”

“She always heals too fast,” Mira said, as if finally allowing herself to admit it. “That gash two weeks ago? The one across her thigh? Gone the next day. Completely gone.”

“And her reaction time,” Zoey added. “During training. She moves like she already knows what we’re going to do. Not just fast—inhuman.”

Mira nodded slowly. “And Celine…”

Zoey looked over. “What about her?”

“She’s always harsher with Rumi. Doesn’t matter if we all made the same mistake—Rumi gets singled out. And the way she talks to her… like she’s a risk. Like she’s not worth the effort of being kind.”

Zoey’s chest tightened. “And Rumi never says anything back. She just—takes it. Like she’s used to it.”

“Like she thinks she deserves it,” Mira whispered.

The quiet twisted, thickened. The air itself felt heavier.

“And tonight,” Zoey said, almost afraid to say it out loud. “Rumi threw her sword to save me. And then she kept fighting. With nothing. Her fists. Her feet. She tore through those demons like it was instinct.”

“She didn’t even flinch when one bit her,” Mira added, staring at the wall like she could see the memory burned into it. “She kicked it off like it was nothing. She—Zoey, she crushed one into a tree.”

Zoey sat down slowly, her hands shaking now. “And her eyes…”

“I saw it too,” Mira whispered. “They lit up. Not like magic. More like… something woke up inside her. Just for a second.”

They stared at each other across the space between the bed and the wall.

And then the truth fell into place.

Not all at once. But with a slow, sinking certainty.

“She’s not… entirely human,” Mira said. It wasn’t a question anymore.

Zoey swallowed hard. “But not like the demons, either. Not exactly. She’s something in between.”

“And we said—” Mira stopped herself, horror blooming across her face.

Zoey’s voice was barely audible. “We said we’d wipe them out. That they didn’t deserve to live.”

They both recoiled at the memory. Words like knives still echoing in the clearing. Celine’s questions. Their eager answers.

Mira clutched at her sleeves. “We didn’t know.”

“But she did,” Zoey said. “She heard us.”

Mira buried her face in her hands. “We said it like she wasn’t even there. Like she didn’t matter.”

“Celine baited us,” Zoey said, her voice sharp now. “She wanted us to say that in front of her. And we did. Like idiots. Like cowards.”

“We proved her right,” Mira whispered.

“We told her she didn’t belong. We didn’t see her.”

Neither of them cried—but something inside both of them broke quietly.

Because now they saw it.

The way Rumi always stood just slightly apart during movie nights. How she hesitated before sitting too close, like she didn’t want to cross a line. How she’d always pause before laughing, like she needed permission.

But then—there had been change.

Mira’s voice trembled. “We were getting through to her. Do you remember that night by the fire?”

Zoey looked up, eyes wide with grief. “When she actually hugged us?”

“She was laughing,” Mira said. “Real, full-on laughing. And then she just—wrapped her arms around us out of nowhere. I thought I imagined it, but she was happy.”

“She smiled like she couldn’t believe she was allowed to,” Zoey whispered.

They both remembered it clearly now. The sleepovers where Rumi had finally started falling asleep curled between them. The hesitant touches becoming comfortable ones. A brush of her hand. Her resting her head on Mira’s shoulder. Her staying close instead of drifting off alone.

And now…

Now she had looked at them like strangers. Like ghosts. And they had no one to blame but themselves.

Zoey pressed a fist to her chest. “We have to fix it.”

Mira nodded. “We will.”

But in that moment, neither of them knew how.

Because Rumi hadn’t yelled. She hadn’t cried. She had simply walked away.

And that was somehow so much worse.

🦋

The infirmary was cold.

Sterile white and silver, bathed in a pale light that never warmed, only exposed. Rumi sat on the edge of the narrow cot, blood drying in a sticky trail down her side, her braid unraveling over one shoulder. She didn’t say anything. She hadn’t said much since the rift had closed.

She just sat. Breathing. Bleeding.

And Celine moved around her with clinical grace.

The older woman washed her hands slowly at the sink, as if this were any other routine patch-up after training. As if Rumi hadn’t nearly torn herself apart in front of people she—

Her fingers curled slightly, but she said nothing.

Celine approached with a tray of tools, gloves already on. She knelt in front of Rumi, eyes too calm. Too soft.

“I’m going to clean the wound,” she said. “This might sting.”

Rumi didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink.

Silence settled again—only the sound of antiseptic-soaked gauze touching broken skin. Gentle. Too gentle. Not like the barked corrections, the clipped commands Celine usually gave her. This touch was almost… loving.

That should have been her first warning.

But Rumi was too tired to notice the difference.

Too tired to stop the words when they came.

“They saw the demons,” Celine said, like it was nothing. “You heard what they said. That they’d kill them all without hesitation.”

The words didn’t land like a slap. No, they sank—quietly, like a needle beneath the skin. Rumi didn’t react.

“I didn’t tell them about you,” Celine went on, dabbing at the bite on Rumi’s ribs with slow precision. “I protected your secret. I protected your heart. Because I knew it would come to this.”

Still, Rumi said nothing. Her eyes were glassy, fixed on the wall opposite her.

“They love you,” Celine whispered. “Or, rather… they loved what they thought you were. But that girl doesn’t exist, does she?”

Something twitched in Rumi’s throat.

“I warned you. I told you not to get too close. But you wanted to believe you could be like them.” Celine’s voice was hushed now, almost soothing. “Human enough. Harmless enough. Normal.”

She threaded the needle and pressed it gently into Rumi’s side. A clean, practiced stitch.

Rumi didn’t wince. She barely breathed.

“But tonight, you showed them what you are,” Celine murmured. “That strength. That fury. That wasn’t human. That wasn’t even close. You frightened them, Rumi. And you didn’t mean to, I know. But fear is a dangerous thing.”

Another stitch. Celine paused to brush hair back from Rumi’s face like a mother might.

“They can’t understand you. And they won’t. Not really. You’ll always be too much or not enough. Too human for the demons. Too demonic for the humans. Always caught between.”

A tremble tried to rise in Rumi’s shoulders. She buried it.

Celine’s voice gentled further, so soft it could have passed for kindness. “I know you wanted to belong. I saw it. I let you try. I hoped maybe this time it would be different. But they showed their true colors tonight, didn’t they?”

Rumi closed her eyes.

“They said demons don’t deserve to live,” Celine whispered. “You heard it with your own ears. So don’t pretend they meant anything else. Don’t pretend they’ll ever love you for what you really are.”

Her voice, her hands—everything about her was gentle. And that made it worse.

“You were made for war, Rumi,” she said. “Not for comfort. Not for closeness. And I know you’re tired. I know it hurts. But this is the truth. You have to shut it down. You have to protect yourself before you break.”

Rumi’s lips parted slightly. No sound came out.

“I need you strong,” Celine murmured. “So you must be still. You must be hard. You must seal it away. Conceal, don’t feel. That’s how you survive. You know that.”

The last stitch slid through. Celine pressed gauze gently to the skin and taped it down, her movements reverent.

Rumi looked down at her hands.

They were clean now. Not a drop of blood. Not a trace of the violence she’d unleashed. And yet they trembled faintly—just once—before going still.

She could still hear them. Mira’s voice. Zoey’s voice. Clear and eager:

“We’d kill them all. They don’t deserve to live.”

And she wondered—

How had she ever believed she had a chance?

Chapter Text

They hadn’t slept.

Mira and Zoey sat on the cold floor outside the infirmary all night, legs tucked to their chests, shoulders occasionally brushing as they drifted between silence and guilt-ridden whispers. Neither could say what they were waiting for exactly—just that they couldn’t go back to their room. Not yet. Not after what they’d said. Not with Rumi still bleeding somewhere behind that sterile white door, too far away to reach and yet too close to escape from their minds.

The hallway stayed dim through the early morning hours. Somewhere deep in the house, a pipe groaned. The Honmoon walls felt colder than usual. It wasn’t until dawn broke with a pale, silvery light that the door finally clicked.

They stood up so fast it made Mira dizzy.

The infirmary door opened.

And Rumi stepped out.

She was already in a new uniform—pressed, clean, spotless. Her braid was pulled back tight, the way she wore it during sparring. There was no limp, no outward wince from the wound at her side. But something about her looked too still. Like she was holding herself together by force of will alone, as if any softness would cause her to crumble.

Her eyes flicked up, landing on them like a weight.

Mira took a shaky step forward. “Rumi…”

Zoey was quicker. “We—can we talk?”

Rumi smiled.
It wasn’t the kind they knew. Not the crooked, bashful kind. Not the rare, bright ones she gave them on quiet nights after training, or the sleepy, safe ones during movie marathons.

This one didn’t reach her eyes. Didn’t even try.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said. Calm. Even. Too practiced. “You were right.”

Mira’s chest went tight. “What—what do you mean?”

Rumi shrugged, as if brushing off something small. Insignificant.
“About demons. You were right. They don’t deserve to live. That’s what you said.” A pause. “You were just being honest.”

Zoey shook her head, eyes wide. “That’s not—”

“I get it,” Rumi continued, voice still light, still detached. “It makes sense. It’s not personal. Not really.” She paused again, a little longer this time. “I just feel… gross. I need a shower.”

She laughed.

It was a sound they’d never heard from her before—hollow and strange, like someone mimicking laughter after forgetting how it works. And still, Rumi stood there, back straight, not letting either of them close.

Zoey stepped forward again. “Please, Rumi—just let us—”

But Rumi was already walking past them.

“We’ll be late,” she said quietly. “Training starts soon.”

No anger. No heat. Just… nothing.
She didn’t touch them. Didn’t meet their eyes again. Her presence felt like a wall, not a person. And before they could say anything else, she disappeared down the corridor, braid swinging gently behind her like a metronome ticking away the moment.

Mira and Zoey didn’t move.

They couldn’t.

The weight of it hit harder now. The sharp, aching wrongness in every part of her behavior. Rumi hadn’t brushed them off—she had shut down. Her voice, her smile, even the way she walked—it wasn’t the Rumi they knew. It was the shell she used to be, before she ever reached for them. Before she trusted them.

“She thinks we meant it,” Zoey whispered. Her voice cracked on the last word.

Mira stood frozen, arms wrapped around herself like armor. “She didn’t even look at us.”

They’d seen her walls come down once—slowly, carefully, piece by piece.
They remembered the first time Rumi accepted a hug without freezing. The first time she curled between them on the floor during a sleepover, dozing off with her head on Mira’s lap. The first time she initiated touch—arms flung awkwardly but happily around Zoey after a sparring match, laughing like she couldn’t believe she’d done it.

They’d built something. Fragile, maybe. But real.

And with a few thoughtless words—baited, twisted, unknowing—they’d shattered it.

“She smiled,” Mira whispered. “That was her smiling at us. That’s all that’s left.”

Zoey sat down on the cold floor, dizzy with guilt.

“She thinks we don’t want to be with her.”

“And now she’s making sure we won’t see what it’s doing to her,” Mira murmured, tears prickling hot at her eyes. “She’s still trying to protect us.”

They didn’t speak after that.

There was nothing left to say.

They had tried to wait for Rumi last night.

But she’d already decided.

There was no need to explain.

🦋

Training resumed like nothing had cracked wide open the night before.

The morning field was still silvered with dew, a hush hanging in the air like the ground itself was holding its breath. Mira and Zoey stood side by side, the weight of their sleepless night still in their bones. They had waited—outside the infirmary, outside her door—hoping for a chance to explain. But Rumi had brushed past them with a hollow smile, claiming she needed to shower, to change, to get ready for training. Her words were empty. The distance, real.

Now they stood before Celine. And Rumi stood behind her, quiet as a statue. Just close enough to hear. Just far enough to be unreachable.

Celine’s voice cut through the fog, crisp and clinical. “After last night, I assume we all understand now why weapon training cannot be delayed any longer.”

She paused, eyes flicking to Zoey.

“One of you was nearly killed.”

Zoey tensed.

Celine tilted her head slightly. “You didn’t even see the demon, did you? Slipped right past you. If Rumi hadn’t reacted as quickly as she did, it would’ve been your neck it sank its teeth into.”

A sharp, involuntary breath rattled in Zoey’s throat.

“She saved you. Lost her weapon doing it. If she weren’t… as skilled as she is, the outcome could’ve been very different.”

The pause after she saved you was deliberate. As was the next one.

“Demons are unpredictable. Dangerous. You saw that for yourselves.”

Her gaze swept over them, lingering just a beat longer on Rumi this time. The implication hung in the air like smoke.

'Some demons can be hiding in plain sight.
Some of them don’t need claws to be a threat.'

She never said it aloud.

She didn’t have to.

Zoey’s hands curled into fists. “I didn’t mean—” She stopped herself. Her throat felt tight. “I didn’t see it coming. I’m sorry Rumi got hurt.”

She turned, desperate for a flicker of response. A nod. Anything.

But Rumi didn’t so much as glance at her.

Mira stepped forward. “But Rumi said yesterday we weren’t ready for weapons. That we needed more foundation work first.”

Celine gave a sharp, professional smile. “Well, the situation changed.”

She clasped her hands behind her back and pivoted smoothly, voice all business.

“I spoke with Rumi this morning. She agrees: the two of you need to start training with weapons now, not later. To protect yourselves. And each other.”

Rumi didn’t contradict her. Didn’t move. She stood motionless at the edge of the field, arms crossed, face unreadable. As if she hadn’t once pushed back when Celine made decisions without asking. As if her silence was permission.

Mira’s mouth opened, but no sound came.

Celine turned toward the weapon racks.

“You’ll try everything. Polearms. Daggers. Short blades. Staffs. The Hanmoon will choose in time, but until then, you learn.”

She handed Mira a polearm, Zoey a set of short daggers. “Focus. Intent. Control.”

They took their positions, uncertain.

That’s when Rumi finally moved.

Her voice came coolly across the mat. “Your grip’s too high, Mira. You won’t have any leverage on the backswing.”

Mira startled but obeyed, adjusting slightly. Rumi didn’t come closer.

“And Zoey,” she added, “your stance is wrong. You’re off-balance.”

Zoey turned toward her instinctively, hoping for something more—a look, a softness, some shred of the closeness they’d once had.

But Rumi wasn’t looking at her. Just the daggers in her hands.

“If you lunge like that, you’ll overextend and drop your blade. Again.”

The words weren’t cruel, but they were colder than anything Rumi had ever used with them before. No warmth. No teasing correction. No gentle sarcasm.

Just precision.

Just distance.

Zoey swallowed and reset her stance. Mira adjusted hers again, casting a glance toward Rumi as if she might say more. She didn’t.

She corrected, she guided, she made sure they didn’t make fatal mistakes—but she never came close. Never lingered. Never let her voice soften.

She wanted them to learn. She didn’t want them to fail.

But she also didn’t want to be near them.

Rumi stayed back, arms crossed, mouth set, her expression unreadable. Her eyes moved constantly, cataloguing flaws, correcting stances, noting every slip of the blade.

Not once did she smile.

Not once did she ask if they were okay.

Mira and Zoey said nothing in return. They felt the wall between them—new and sharp and high. And worse than anything: Rumi had built it herself.

She was still helping them survive.

But she wasn’t letting them in.

Not anymore.

And that, somehow, hurt more than anything she could’ve said.

🦋

Rumi stood off to the side of the training field, arms folded tightly over her chest, the wind threading through her uniform like ice through cloth. Her wound still ached beneath the fresh layers of gauze, but she welcomed it. It made things quiet. Blunt.

Pain was honest, at least.

The morning light spilled over the edges of the trees, soft and golden, but it didn’t touch her. Nothing seemed to. Not since last night. Not since them.

Celine’s voice rang clear across the field, confident and sharp as always. Talking about weapon bonding. About the attack. About the need to act sooner. She said Zoey had been lucky. That if Rumi hadn’t thrown her sword, if she hadn’t stepped in, it would’ve been Zoey’s blood on the ground. And worse—Celine spoke like the danger hadn’t just been the demon.

Rumi didn’t flinch. Not even when Celine’s words hung in the air with just enough venom to sting. “Demons are dangerous,” she’d said. Not the one. Not that one. Just… demons. Like Rumi wasn’t standing right there, listening. Like maybe she had been the risk.

She knew, she was.

She barely noticed the ache in her side anymore. Just the pounding behind her eyes. Just the weight in her chest.

Mira and Zoey stood a few feet away, each holding the first of many weapons they’d try. Their shoulders were tight, eyes flicking to her like they were waiting—for permission, for guidance, for something that wouldn’t come.

She didn’t meet their gaze. She didn’t want to. She couldn’t trust what might crack through the silence if she did.

Let them learn.

Let them grow stronger.

They had to.

Because next time, if something happened—if she lost control, if whatever lived just beneath her skin slipped out too far—someone needed to be able to stop her.

They had to be strong enough to put her down if it came to that.

That was what love was, wasn’t it?

Making sure they could kill you if they needed to.

She shifted her weight, voice flat. “Back elbow’s too high, Zoey. You’re exposing your side.”

Zoey startled, corrected. Said thank you softly. Rumi didn’t respond.

Mira was gripping her weapon too tightly—fear in her hands, not control. Rumi saw it at a glance.

“Loosen your grip,” she said. “You’re going to sprain your wrist like that.”

The words came out cold. Sharper than necessary. She didn’t mean to hurt them—but maybe that was better. Maybe it would make the space between them easier to keep.

Because every time she remembered Zoey’s voice—they don’t deserve to live—it hollowed something deeper.

She understood. She did. She wasn’t angry. Not really.

They were right.

And she needed them to keep thinking that. Needed them to stay convinced. Because it meant they’d be safe from her. From this.

Celine continued her instructions, teaching footwork, swing arcs, the balance of each blade. Rumi stayed back. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t correct anything beyond the bare minimum. Didn’t encourage. Didn’t soften.

She couldn’t.

Because softness had led her here. Because she’d let herself believe she belonged. That she could ever have a place that wasn’t conditional.

That lie had nearly broken her.

So she gave them what she had left: survival. Tactics. Her voice.

They‘d survive her. She would make sure of it.

She looked at Mira, at Zoey—her girls, once—and something deep inside her whispered:

'Get stronger.

So you can stop me.'

Chapter Text

By winter, they’d all gotten sharper—faster, quieter, deadlier.

Zoey was near-fluent with nearly every weapon they’d been given, but it was the throwing knives that felt right in her hands. Clean. Controlled. She carried a few now, tucked in the lining of her uniform like extra fingers. When she threw them, they didn’t miss.

Mira had found her rhythm with the kama, the twin hand sickles with their deceptively simple design. What looked like sticks with blades were deadly extensions of her body now—fluid, fast, and brutal when they needed to be.

They trained hard. Because they had to. Because Rumi never hunted alone anymore.

That had been the rule—unspoken, unchallenged. The three of them went together. Every time.

But it didn’t matter how fast they moved, how prepared they were. More often than not, by the time they reached the site, it was over. Demons dead. Pink mist steaming in the cold air. Rumi standing in the wreckage like a statue carved from ice and exhaustion.

Sometimes they caught the end of it—a blur of motion, a flash of her blade, the snarl of something demonic dying in the dark. But never the beginning. Never the moment it started. As if Rumi didn’t want them to see that part of her anymore.

Idol work, at least, was steadier now.

They no longer wrote lyrics cross-legged on bedroom floors or sprawled across Rumi’s bed with snacks and messy harmonies. Instead, they met in the living room. Neutral ground. Always safe. Always careful. The choreography sessions were held out on the training field—structured, distant, clean.

Rumi never slacked. Never missed a beat. She gave her all, just like always.

Gone was the warmth behind her corrections. Gone were the soft eye-rolls, the inside jokes, the lazy little “you got this” nudges that used to land before a tough verse or a complicated step.

Now, it was all business. Feedback, not friendship.

She smiled, sometimes—a small, practiced thing. A twist of her mouth that tried to mimic emotion, but never made it past her eyes. Her gaze was always far away, even when she was looking right at them. Like she was waiting for something they couldn’t see. Or like something in her had simply… gone quiet.

Celine, on the other hand, looked pleased.

Smug.

Like this new version of Rumi—the empty one, the obedient one—was exactly what she’d been working toward all along. Like this was success. As if breaking something so thoroughly it stopped reaching for others was a victory.

Zoey and Mira tried. Again and again. They tried.

At first with apologies, stuttered and raw. Then with questions. Gentle ones. Careful ones. Just something, anything to crack through the wall Rumi had wrapped around herself. But every attempt closed her off more. Her smiles got thinner. Her words colder. Her presence more mechanical.

They knew she wasn’t listening.

She didn’t want to hear them explain.

Because she’d already decided there was nothing they could say that wouldn’t hurt more.

Eventually, they stopped bringing it up. Stopped asking. Not because they gave up, but because they finally understood:

Rumi had shut the door, and locked it, and thrown the key somewhere even she might not be able to find.

So they stopped saying it.

And started showing it.

They kept waiting for her after training. Kept placing her favorite snacks on the table during lyric sessions. Kept holding out their hands during cool-down stretches, hoping one day she’d take one again.

They didn’t know if it would work.

Didn’t know if the damage Celine had done—they had done—could be undone.

But they knew one thing, down to their bones:

They hadn’t meant her.

Never her.

And if they had to spend the rest of the year proving that—then so be it.

🦋

The living room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of fairy lights and the glow of laptop screens. Pages of lyrics lay scattered across the coffee table, notebooks full of half-rhymes and highlighted scribbles. The snow outside fell slow and soundless, blanketing the windows in a hush so deep it made their words feel like spells.

Rumi sat cross-legged on the floor, a pen between her fingers, her voice low as she sang the bridge again—adding a softness to the notes, a weight to the final vowel that neither Zoey nor Mira had thought of. It was the first time in months she let anything real bleed into her voice.

They froze.

She didn’t.

Just kept singing—haunted, raw, beautiful.

For one fractured moment, she wasn’t distant. She was Rumi. The Rumi who used to hum melodies while brushing her teeth, who used to suggest lyrics at 2 a.m. with a mouthful of snacks, who once pulled both of them into a hug so tight it left their hearts sore.

But then the ripple hit.

They all felt it.

A wrongness brushing over their skin, faint but insistent—like standing too close to a faulty amp, humming with pressure.

Farther than usual. Not in the woods. The city down the road.

Rumi stood instantly. Her body stiffening, senses narrowing to a razor’s edge. Her eyes were already scanning, already calculating.

“We’re coming,” Mira said, rising.

Zoey followed. “We’ll fight too.”

Rumi paused.

Her eyes flicked to them—sharper than usual. “You don’t have your real weapons yet,” she said, a thin warning in her voice. “You can’t—”

Another ripple crashed over them, sharper. Stronger.

Rumi’s pupils dilated.

She swore under her breath—something low and sharp in a language neither of them knew—and bolted for the door. “If it gets too dangerous, you run. Don’t argue. Just run.”

Zoey didn’t hesitate. Mira grabbed her jacket. Neither of them stayed behind.

This time, they understood.

It wasn’t just that Rumi ran fast.

She moved like she belonged to the wind—like she was the wind, cutting through the night with nothing but purpose and fear. Her lips moved, quiet, shaping a melody, and the Honmoon answered.

It wasn’t just a hum. It was a call. A key.

The forest bent around her. The air shimmered with soft blue light, threads of magic unfurling in her wake like a ribbon caught in a storm. She didn’t run through the woods—she rode them. Each wave of Honmoon energy catching under her feet, pushing her forward, lifting her away from the earth.

Mira and Zoey followed, clumsy at first. But the Honmoon didn’t shut them out. They felt the music too. The pressure of it. The pulse. They picked up its rhythm like dancers finding the beat, and though they could never catch up—not to her, not yet—they kept her in sight.

Ahead, Rumi moved with terrifying precision.

The Honmoon parted before her, and with one clean movement, she drew her blade—not from a sheath, but from the blue shimmer of the wave beneath her. It slid into her hand like it had always been there, waiting.

The rift was opening.

The barrier shimmered and tore like stretched fabric, and on the other side—

Darkness.

Rumi didn’t hesitate.

She ran straight toward it.

And Zoey and Mira ran after her.

For the first time, together.

🦋

The rift tore open like a wound splitting the sky.

Snow still clung to the trees, delicate and quiet, the air sharp and trembling with the cold. But that stillness shattered as the fabric between worlds ruptured.

From within, demons spilled.

Not the small, hunched ones Zoey and Mira had seen before. These were different. Taller. Sharper. Smarter. With taut limbs and jagged smiles. Their eyes gleamed with knowing cruelty. Some carried twisted weapons—blades shaped like spines, axes fused from rusted iron and bone.

And they didn’t hesitate.

They went straight for Rumi.

“Rumi—!” Zoey was already moving, but it was too late. The first wave was on her.

Rumi’s violet braid snapped behind her as she moved like lightning, cutting down the first demon with a clean arc of her blade. The sound of metal through flesh echoed like thunder, and the blade caught moonlight as if it burned with it. Every move was precise. Controlled. Beautiful. Terrifying.

But the rift kept bleeding.

“Mira—watch left!” Zoey called, parrying a low strike from a leaner demon. Her iron dagger caught the creature in the shoulder—but the blade stuck. She had to twist and yank it out, buying Mira time.

Mira took the opening, driving the tip of her weapon into the demon’s back with a sharp cry. It fell, screeching.

Iron worked—but barely.

They had to push. Tear. Sweat poured down their faces as their muscles screamed with every strike. Their iron weapons were too heavy, too slow—too human.

Meanwhile, Rumi moved like fury made flesh.

She wove through demons like she wasn’t made of bone and blood. Her blade a blur. Her steps soundless. Each time they thought a demon might land a hit, she turned. Blocked. Cut.

And yet—

“She’s alone,” Mira whispered, horrified.

They weren’t fast enough.

She was always first.

Always ahead.

Always shielding them.

Two demons didn’t fall.

They stepped from the rift like kings into a ruin. Tall. Lithe. Armed.

Their posture was deliberate. Their weapons gleamed.

They didn’t look at Mira. Or Zoey.

Only Rumi.

They tilted their heads in eerie unison. And they spoke.

Not in a language they understood—but the air changed. The tone curled like poison around Rumi’s frame.

Zoey saw it: the way her back stiffened. Her grip on the blade tightening. Her knuckles white.

“They’re talking to her,” Mira said, breath catching.

Taunting.

Inviting her to make a mistake.

To rush.

To open herself up.

She didn’t.

But she couldn’t fight both at once.

The Honmoon stirred—visible now, shimmering in pale light around Rumi’s frame like mist.

One blade in her hand.

Two demons closing in.

Then they moved.

Both at once. One from the left, the other from the right.

Rumi blocked the first with a scream of steel—but the second raised its blade—

“RUMI!” Zoey’s voice cracked.

Her daggers flew.

Two flashes of steel pierced the demon’s side. It screeched, stumbling, long fingers clawing at its chest.

And behind Rumi—

A second rift began to open.

Right behind her. Right where she couldn’t see.

“No—no no no—” Mira’s voice shook.

They couldn’t reach her.

They weren’t fast enough.

They weren’t strong enough.

And then—

They sang.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t polished.

But it was real.

Zoey’s voice first—breathless, trembling but certain.

Then Mira joined. Raw, fierce.

Their voices found each other in the dark.

And the Honmoon listened.

🎵

We ran through ash, through silence and flame,
Told ourselves it’s just a game—
But your eyes held stories the night tried to hide,
And now we sing where we once just survived.

We don’t break, we burn brighter—
Shadows come, but we fight harder.
Sparks from scars, we shine like fire,
Even if the world gets darker.

Side by side, we raise the sky,
A blade in hand, no need to hide.
We don’t break, we burn brighter—
You’re not alone this time.
🎵

The Honmoon rose like a tidal wave beneath them.

Mira felt her chest crack open.

And from that ache, that fury, that need—a weapon came.

Not the one she trained with.

A woldo—long, curved, elegant. It felt right the moment her fingers wrapped around the hilt.

She didn’t question it.

She slammed the blade into the earth.

A pulse of light exploded outward, disintegrating the demons clawing through the second rift.

The air snapped with energy.

Beside her, Zoey gasped.

Blue lightning flared around her hands. Throwing daggers—hers now—alive with electricity.

She didn’t hesitate.

Two blades flew.

The demon that had staggered forward crumpled mid-lunge, body twitching as arcs of lightning danced over its skin.

And through the chaos—

Rumi turned.

And smiled.

Not the hollow, performative one.

A real one.

One that reached her eyes.

She stepped forward. Stood between them.

And added her voice to theirs.

Her voice—low and clear—slid into the chorus like it had always belonged.

They sang together. Fought together.

The Honmoon danced with them—threading light through blade, voice, movement. It pulsed with each breath they took. The rift flinched from the harmony, then began to close—as if the world itself listened.

Rumi moved like the storm she had always been.

Her sword carved one final arc—light trailing behind like the tail of a comet.

The last demon fell.

And the rift collapsed with a thunderous exhale.

Silence.

Then—
Snow again.

Fat, slow flakes drifted through the torn sky like the world was trying to blanket what had just happened. The air no longer shimmered with rift energy, but it still felt charged, like something sacred had passed through and left the atmosphere holding its breath.

Ash curled in ghostly spirals around their boots. The scent of scorched magic and burnt demon ichor clung to the cold, sharp wind.

The Honmoon had stilled. Its light had faded from the clearing, retreating back into the cracks between worlds. But its hum still echoed faintly inside their bones—like a song that had ended, but not truly gone.

Zoey dropped to her knees first. Her chest heaved, sweat clinging to her brow despite the cold. Her fingers still sparked faintly with the residual energy of her new weapon, the electric shimmer of her throwing daggers buzzing faintly by her side.

Mira lowered herself beside her, her woldo’s long blade glowing soft blue along the edges, light licking at the snow but not melting it.

And Rumi stood above them.

Blood streaked her right sleeve in a slow, steady line, dripping onto the icy earth. Her violet braid was unraveling, hair clinging to the damp sides of her face. Her clothes were torn in places, soaked from sweat, snow, and combat.

But she stood tall.

Her blade was steady in her hand. Her jaw squared. Her eyes clear.

The storm inside her—quiet.

She looked down at them.

And for the first time in so, so long—
There was something behind her eyes that wasn’t shadow.

Not fear.
Not calculation.
Not the steel-shell restraint she’d worn like armor for months.

Something warm.
Something real.

She blinked, slowly. Then—

“You both…” Her voice cracked with something that might’ve been awe. Or disbelief. Or something so close to grief it curled the edge of her words. “…You called it.”

Zoey raised her head, cheeks red from wind and emotion. “We didn’t want you to fight alone again.”

Mira’s voice followed, gentler. “We meant what we said… back then. It was never about you. It was never you we feared, Rumi.”

Silence stretched between them again.

Rumi didn’t reply right away. Her lips parted, then pressed shut. Her gaze dropped to Zoey’s hands—to the throwing daggers, still glowing faintly with Honmoon light, still humming with the echo of divine electricity.

Something flickered across Rumi’s face.

Something sharp and soft all at once.

Her eyes shone—not just from unshed tears, but from memory.

“Those,” she murmured, voice barely above the wind, “belonged to my mother.”

Zoey froze.

“I was an infant when she died,” Rumi continued, her voice suddenly too steady, too composed—too rehearsed. “Celine said she could throw a dagger straight through a falling leaf. I thought… no one else would ever be worthy of them.”

Zoey stared at the blades in her hands, trembling. “I didn’t know. I—Rumi, if I’d—”

But Rumi shook her head, slow and final.

“No,” she said. “You don’t have to know. You just have to be.”

She stepped forward. Snow whispered beneath her boots.

Then—carefully, with the weight of something soft and breakable—she knelt.

She knelt between them.

Looked Zoey full in the eyes.

“I saw you. Tonight. Really saw you. You moved like lightning. Like you’ve always been meant to be beside me. Not behind.”

Zoey’s mouth parted—but no words came.

Rumi smiled.

A real one.

Not the polite curve. Not the hollow performance.

A smile that reached her eyes. That cracked something in her chest wide open.

She leaned forward and pulled Zoey into a hug.

Zoey went rigid with surprise for half a second.

Then melted into her.

Rumi’s voice was a low breath near her ear. “I’m proud of you.”

She didn’t let go immediately.

Her arms were strong. Solid. And for once, she wasn’t holding them as shields—but as something meant to protect. Meant to connect.

Then she turned to Mira, opening one arm, the other still holding Zoey’s shoulder like she couldn’t quite let go.

Mira stared at her, wide-eyed.

Zoey raised a brow, making a grabbing motion towards her. “You’re not getting out of this. Come here.”

Mira made a strangled laugh—half-sob, half-exhale—and leaned into them, wrapping her arms around both girls.

Rumi closed her eyes.

“This woldo,” she said softly, tilting her head against Mira’s. “It found you for a reason. You command it like it’s always been yours. Like it was waiting for someone with enough heart to wield it.”

Mira swallowed. “Rumi…”

“I’m glad my mother’s weapons were given to someone worthy,” Rumi whispered. “To people I trust.”

Zoey let out a sharp breath. Mira made a soft sound in her throat.

They didn’t speak.

They just stayed there—three girls in a clearing, wrapped in snow and silence and something too deep for language.

A battle behind them.
A future ahead.
The Honmoon pulsing faintly in all of their chests.

And for the first time in what felt like forever—
Rumi didn’t feel like a ghost.
She felt like someone who was coming back.

Piece by piece.
Smile by smile.
Touch by trembling touch.

And they—Mira and Zoey—held on.

Just in case she forgot how.

The weapons faded first.

Soft light peeled away from metal and skin, dissolving like mist under morning sun. Mira’s woldo flickered blue, then vanished, leaving only her clenched hands and a faint warmth buzzing at her fingertips. Zoey’s daggers disappeared in a crackle of static, the last spark curling around her knuckles before fading to nothing.

The clearing was quiet again.

No demons. No rift.

Only snow.

Only them.

“I really liked that,” Mira said softly, her breath clouding between them.

Rumi tilted her head, still crouched between them, arms loosely around their shoulders. Her brow knit—just slightly.

“I mean the weapons,” Mira clarified. “The fighting. Us. Together.”

Zoey hummed in agreement, nodding against Rumi’s shoulder.

But Mira shifted slightly, not pulling away, just enough to turn and meet Rumi’s eyes. Her face was calm, but her voice wavered on the edge of something careful.

“I don’t want to ruin the moment. Really. I don’t. But… we need to talk.”

The tension was immediate.

Rumi stiffened. Every line of her body froze. Like something inside her had locked down again, instincts shouting danger, walls up, retreat.

She pulled back—not fully, just enough to shift her weight. Her eyes darted between them, already scanning for space to move, an escape she hadn’t yet decided to take.

“Mira,” she warned. Low. Cautious.

But Zoey’s arms stayed firm around her waist. Mira didn’t budge either, wrapping both arms tighter around Rumi’s side.

“No vanishing acts,” Zoey said, gently but firmly. “Not this time.”

“We’re not letting go,” Mira added, soft but certain. “Even if it’s hard. Especially if it’s hard.”

Rumi’s eyes flicked toward the woods, toward the quiet snow, toward anything that wasn’t them. She opened her mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to deflect.

But Zoey was already speaking again, voice low and sure.

“You’re not alone, Rumi. Not anymore.”

“You never were,” Mira said. “We just… didn’t know how to prove it. But we’re here. Now. Still here.”

Rumi stared at them.

At their faces flushed with cold. At their fingers, callused from training. At their eyes—brighter now, steadier. Holding something that wasn’t pity or fear.

Something that felt terrifyingly close to love.

She looked down at Zoey’s hands—still resting lightly over her ribs—and then at Mira’s, still clenched over the spot where the woldo had disappeared.

Her heart beat once.
Hard.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Rumi whispered.

“Neither do we,” Zoey said.

“But we can figure it out,” Mira added, voice shaking just enough to sound like truth.

Rumi swallowed.

And something inside her gave—just a little. Just enough.

She let herself breathe. Let her shoulders drop half an inch. She didn’t relax, not fully—but she didn’t pull away either.

The snow kept falling around them, soft and quiet, blanketing the ground in a world that felt reset.

Zoey nudged her lightly. “No one’s going anywhere. Got it?”

Rumi nodded. Barely.

Mira smiled. “Good. Because next time we face demons, I expect you to share the kills.”

Rumi snorted softly through her nose. A breath that might’ve been a laugh.

Maybe.

They didn’t press her.

They just stayed there.
Three girls.
One fight behind them.
Many ahead.

🦋

They didn’t go back to the house right away.

The snow was still falling, but slower now, like it had done its work and was only hanging around to listen.

Eventually, they found shelter in the stone outpost near the training fields—a small hexagonal structure barely more than four walls and a chimney. It wasn’t meant for lingering, but the fire inside was warm, the silence private. The storm stayed outside.

They sat around the low hearth, shoulders nearly touching, steam rising from the hot cups of instant tea Zoey had managed to heat with a spark of the Honmoon still echoing in her fingertips.

No one spoke for a long time.

Until Mira finally exhaled. “Okay. We need to talk.”

Rumi didn’t flinch. But she didn’t look up either.

Zoey set her tea down. “About Celine.”

Rumi blinked once. “You’re going to have to be more specific. Celine’s got about fifty issues.”

“She’s a walking red flag,” Mira said bluntly. “Like, waving in a toxic wind.”

“She’s also our guardian,” Zoey added, a little quieter. “Well, Mira’s legally. And yours too, right?”

“She’s had guardianship over me since I was born,” Rumi said. Her voice was dry, but not defensive. “My mother asked for it. In her will.”

That made the fire crackle louder, or maybe it just felt louder.

Zoey glanced at Mira, then leaned in slightly. “I could probably get out of it, maybe. But my father would drag me back to the States. And I’m not leaving.”

“No one’s leaving,” Mira said, firmly. “We’re just… stuck. With her.”

“She’s dangerous,” Zoey murmured. “Not like demons. Worse. She’s smart. She makes you think everything is your fault.”

“She is dangerous,” Rumi agreed, softly. “But she’s good at what she does.”

That earned a heavy silence. Rumi didn’t stop there.

“She hasn’t told you yet. I didn’t either. But we’re going to debut soon.”

Mira’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

“We’re not ready—”

“We are,” Rumi interrupted, quiet but sure. “Vocals, choreography, concepts, attitude. We’re ready. And Celine—she’s our manager.”

Zoey grimaced. “Great.”

“I know,” Rumi murmured. “I know how it sounds. But there’s more.”

She hesitated then, staring into the fire like it might rearrange the words in her head.

“She never stays in the city. She always goes back to the mountains. My mother’s buried there.”

Zoey blinked. “So what, we just have to stay in the city?”

“If we’re good enough,” Rumi said. “If we really make it—like really—we’ll have to stay. Perform. Promote. Train. And she won’t. She never stays long-term.”

“So all we have to do is become idols,” Zoey said wryly. “And wait a few years.”

“That’s the idea,” Rumi murmured.

Mira leaned forward. “Then we can move out. On our own. Together.”

Rumi didn’t answer immediately. Her hands were clasped too tightly in her lap.

Zoey nudged her. “We’ve come this far, Rumi.”

“Yeah,” Mira added, quieter. “But that’s not the whole thing, is it?”

Rumi looked at them then. Finally. Her eyes were shadowed, cautious.

“We’re not pushing,” Zoey said quickly, holding her gaze. “We just… want you to know that we know something’s not quiet… normal.”

Mira nodded. “We’ve put it together. And it’s okay.”

Zoey softened her voice. “You don’t need to be afraid. Not with us.”

“You don’t have to keep pushing us away,” Mira whispered. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“We’re a team,” Zoey said. “And you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Rumi stared at them. For a long time, she didn’t move.

Then she looked down at her hands. Flexed them like she was trying to feel if they were real. Her voice came out barely audible.

“It’s not just what happened,” she said.

Zoey reached for her hand. “We know.”

Mira didn’t let her look away. “And we’re still here.”

Rumi’s breath hitched. She blinked hard and fast, trying to keep her eyes dry.

“Just… don’t say it,” she said.

“Say what?” Zoey asked gently.

“That it doesn’t matter. That you love me anyway.” Rumi’s mouth twisted. “I don’t want the kind version of the truth.”

“We’re not giving you the kind version,” Mira said. “We’re giving you the real one.”

Rumi closed her eyes.

Snow tapped gently against the windows. The fire popped.

Zoey squeezed her hand. Mira leaned her head on Rumi’s shoulder.

No one said anything else for a long time.

But something shifted.

The silence didn’t crack this time.
It softened.

And it held.

Chapter Text

They left the outpost once the fire burned low.

Not because they were ready—but because they had to be. The wind had picked up again, tugging at cloaks and sleeves, and the snow had started to fall harder. The sky overhead glowed a pale, colorless blue. Morning creeping closer.

Their boots crunched through frozen grass and ice-flecked earth as they made their way back toward the estate—quiet, but not in a heavy way.

They didn’t talk.

They didn’t need to.

Something had shifted between them, subtle but solid. Like a thread had been woven, strong and invisible, from one heart to the next.

Zoey’s hand brushed against Rumi’s once, and she didn’t pull away.

Mira kept walking close, just a step behind—not guarding, but grounding.

The lights from the manor shimmered against the misty air as they approached, golden and too warm to trust. A different kind of battlefield awaited them inside.

And when they stepped through the doors—

Celine was already there.

Waiting.

She stood in the center of the main hall like she’d never left it. Not a hair out of place. Not a crease on her sharp black coat. As if she’d been sculpted from frost and poise.

Her arms were folded across her chest. A single teacup rested on the nearby table, still steaming, untouched.

She looked up as the door closed behind them. Her gaze swept over the three girls like a scan. Zoey’s mussed hair and rumpled jacket. Mira’s still-healing knuckles. Rumi, flanked on either side, pale but steady.

Celine didn’t comment on the dried blood on their sleeves, or the exhaustion clinging to their movements like shadows.

She just smiled.

That same cool, calculating smile that never quite reached her eyes.

“Well,” she said, her voice silk-wrapped steel. “You’re all in one piece. I’d say that’s something.”

Zoey straightened. “You knew.”

“I always know,” Celine said, stepping forward slowly, eyes narrowing like she was confirming some internal report. “The Honmoon may be quiet now, but the aftershock? It leaves residue. Especially when three of its chosen finally decide to wake up.”

She stopped a few feet away, examining them like rare instruments.

“I felt it before sunrise. The ripple. The shift. Even if your weapons are gone, they’ve left fingerprints on the air.”

Mira opened her mouth—probably to deflect, to argue—but Celine was already moving on, voice sharpening.

“You’ve been out there all night. Risking everything. And yet—” she gave a small, sardonic shrug “—you’ve never looked more like a group.”

Rumi didn’t say anything. She stood still, unreadable again, the warmth from the outpost already slipping from her expression.

Celine’s smile widened by a degree. “Don’t look so shocked. I like cohesion. It’s good for the brand.”

Zoey’s stomach sank. “Wait. What?”

Celine turned away—back to the table, lifting the teacup at last. “You wanted a chance. You wanted to be seen. So I gave it to you.”

She took a sip, perfectly calm. Then, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, she said:

“You’re debuting.”

The words fell like a knife to the floor.

Mira blinked. “What?”

“Three weeks,” Celine clarified. “New Year’s Eve. Midnight slot. I’ve already finalized the contract.”

“New Year’s is—” Zoey’s brain caught up. “That’s still in winter.”

“Yes,” Celine said. “But technically, it is the start of spring. The very edge of it. Symbolic. Clean. Poetic. Don’t you love it?”

Rumi’s lips parted. “You didn’t ask us.”

Celine’s eyes flicked over her. “I don’t need to ask. I manage you. And this is the kind of opportunity that doesn’t come twice.”

She moved toward the grand staircase, each step measured and final.

“From now until then: no distractions. Training every day. New choreography, new vocals, final styling adjustments. You’ll need to live like you’ve already debuted.”

She paused on the first step, looking back down at them.

“I expect perfection. Or something close enough to fool the world.”

Then she turned and disappeared up the stairs, heels echoing behind her like a countdown.

The silence she left in her wake was sharp.

Zoey exhaled through her nose. “She didn’t even ask.”

“She never does,” Mira murmured.

Rumi didn’t say anything.

But her fists were clenched at her sides.

And her eyes—though distant—weren’t empty.

They were watching.

Calculating.

Ready.

Zoey stepped closer, her voice low. “Three weeks?”

Mira nodded. “Three weeks.”

“And then it starts,” Rumi said. “For real.”

They looked at each other.

The Honmoon pulsed faintly in their chests, quiet now. Dormant. But not gone.

It had woken for a reason.

Now they had to prove why.

🦋

There were no more rifts.

No more night terrors leaking through the cracks of the world. No more demon-scented snow or Honmoon humming like a live wire under their skin.

And yet—it didn’t feel easier.

If anything, it felt harder.

Because now, the threat wasn’t blood and blade.

It was the weight of expectation.

And it had Celine’s name stamped all over it.

Training became war.

Six days a week, twelve hours a day. Vocal warmups before sunrise. Dance drills until sweat soaked through their spines. Breath control exercises while running laps in freezing air. Performance workshops. Studio recording. Scripted interviews. Image coaching. Personal branding.

“You’re not girls anymore,” Celine said, circling them like a hawk during their first full-group session. “You’re idols. Act like it.”

The vocal coach didn’t care if Mira’s voice cracked or if Zoey’s range was still a little unstable. He made them sing through it—because the crowd wouldn’t pause for weakness.

The choreographer was worse. A stone-faced ex-ballerina with a stopwatch and zero mercy. One missed beat? Start over. Someone’s breath off rhythm? Again.

And Rumi—Rumi was everywhere.
But not really with them.

Not like before.

Celine pulled her aside constantly.

“Leader training,” she said. “You need to command, not coddle.”

Sometimes it meant strategy sessions deep into the night, with endless evaluations and rehearsals of public speaking. Sometimes it meant private conversations in cold, echoing rooms. Celine’s voice low, persuasive, unblinking. “You’re the face, Rumi. That means they don’t get to see you break.”

Rumi always came back quieter.

Tighter.

Like something invisible had been cinched around her ribs.

Still—she tried.

After the conversation in the snow, she didn’t vanish as often. Didn’t retreat behind glass walls.

She helped Mira stretch after late-night choreography. Sat next to Zoey during lyric edits, offering small notes, sometimes even a smile. She didn’t say much, but her presence was there. Not hovering. Not guarding. Just there.

Sometimes, when Zoey joked during water breaks or Mira sang too loud in the showers, Rumi laughed.

Not the sharp kind.

The real kind.

Then came the meeting.

Two weeks before debut.

They were called into the rehearsal studio. Lights off. Table set up in front of the mirrored wall. A folder with mock-up logos. Bottled water that no one touched.

Celine waited like she was about to announce a national emergency.

“Right,” she said. “We need to finalize branding. The name.”

Zoey, still sore from floor spins, blinked blearily. “Aren’t we a little late for that?”

Celine gave a tight smile. “You’re lucky I’m letting you have input at all.”

She opened the folder.

Flipped it around.

And there, in sleek cursive font and pastel moonlit gradients:

“Moonlight Sisters.”

Dead silence.

Mira made a sound like she’d swallowed her own tongue.

Zoey choked. “I’m sorry—what?”

Celine raised an eyebrow. “It’s aspirational. Timeless. Evokes mystery, elegance, and feminine strength.”

“It evokes a 2007 girl group who got eliminated in the second round of a survival show,” Zoey said flatly.

Mira winced. “It sounds like we should be holding glow sticks and crying in a forest.”

“I hate it,” Zoey added. “With every cell in my body.”

Celine’s smile thinned. “Good. Then come up with something better. You have forty-eight hours.”

“What—seriously?” Mira asked.

Celine rose, gathering her tablet. “If you can’t agree, I’m using mine.”

“Moonlight Sisters,” Zoey repeated, like saying it again might make it less cursed.

But it didn’t.

Not even a little.

Celine paused at the door. “You wanted to be seen. You don’t get to be choosy about the spotlight.”

And then she was gone.

The girls sat in stunned silence.

“…Did we hallucinate that?” Mira asked.

Zoey let her head thunk back against the mirror. “No. That was real. And we need a real name. Before she brands us with glittery trauma forever.”

Mira groaned into her hoodie. “How do we even pick something?”

They turned to Rumi.

She blinked. “Don’t look at me.”

“You’re the leader,” Zoey said.

“And you hate it too,” Mira added. “I saw your face.”

“…I didn’t hate it,” Rumi muttered.

Zoey raised an eyebrow.

“Okay,” Rumi sighed. “I hated it a lot.”

They all slumped against the mirrored wall, exhausted but united.

Zoey closed her eyes. “We need something that sounds like us.”

Mira nodded. “Not like what Celine wants us to be. What we are.”

Rumi didn’t speak.

But her fingers were tapping softly against her thigh—like she was thinking.

Not calculating.

Not commanding.

Just… imagining.

They only had forty-eight hours.

Not just to name a group.

To name themselves.

And somehow, in the middle of brutal training schedules, dwindling energy, and Celine’s unrelenting glare shadowing everything—they still found time.

It started in the laundry room.

Zoey was sitting on the floor with her back against the dryer, Mira’s head in her lap, both of them too sore to move.

“I still can’t believe she said Moonlight Sisters,” Mira muttered, eyes closed.

“I can,” Zoey sighed. “It’s got Celine written all over it. Pretty and hollow.”

“We need something better.”

“Obviously.”

Silence.

Then Mira said, “Okay. No moons. No stars. Nothing sparkly. What else is us?”

“Chaos,” Zoey offered.

Mira snorted. “Trauma.”

“Sharp objects.”

“Tension.”

“Therapy needed,” Zoey deadpanned.

Mira burst out laughing, full and ugly. “Celine would explode.”

Zoey grinned. “That’s half the point.”

Later that night, they pulled Rumi in.

Not in a meeting. Not in a formal setting. Just… in their room.

Where Rumi had drifted again. Sitting cross-legged on Mira’s bed with a half-written lyric sheet, hair damp from the shower, hoodie sleeves too long for her fingers.

“We’re workshopping,” Zoey said, tossing a crumpled list in front of her.

Rumi glanced at the paper, then at them. “Is this the naming thing?”

“You bet,” Mira said, flopping onto the mattress beside her. “And before you say anything—yes, I vetoed ‘Moonlight Sisters.’ With my entire soul.”

Rumi gave a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh.

“Some of them are jokes,” Zoey warned. “Some aren’t. It’s a mess.”

“Kind of like us,” Mira added, nudging Rumi with her shoulder.

Rumi didn’t flinch.

She didn’t lean back either.

Instead, she picked up the list. Eyes scanning through the scribbles:

Shadowline
Faultlight
Silver Riot
Valkyrie Theory
Arcanum
Heretic Hearts
Nova Wake
Indigo Cut
Anthem Bloom

“…Some of these are good,” she murmured, surprised.

“We’ve had time,” Zoey said. “Between dance drills and mental collapse.”

Rumi turned a name over in her mouth. “Arcanum.”

“You like it?”

Rumi paused. “It feels… hidden. Strong.”

“Like us,” Mira whispered.

Rumi didn’t answer right away.

But she nodded.

Still, the pull didn’t let go.

Celine summoned her the next morning. Again.

“Your posture’s slipping,” she said coldly. “Fix it before the photoshoot.”

Rumi straightened.

“You’re too soft around them lately,” Celine added, tapping her tablet. “They need a leader, not a best friend.”

“I am leading,” Rumi said quietly.

“You’re comforting,” Celine replied. “There’s a difference.”

A long silence.

Then: “They trust me more now.”

“They should fear disappointing you,” Celine snapped. “Not hold your hand.”

That landed sharp. Quiet and cruel.

“You can’t afford to be the emotional core, Rumi. That’s not your job. You’re the structure. You hold them together.”

Rumi said nothing.

Because part of her still believed that voice.
Still thought: Maybe she’s right.
Still remembered: Celine was there. When no one else was.

But later, when she returned to the room, Zoey was waiting with a half-burnt grilled cheese and a smug expression. “Chef’s special. Slightly singed pride.”

Mira shoved a pair of pajama pants into her arms. “Movie night. Training be damned.”

And Rumi—

Rumi sat down.

Ate the sandwich.

Watched the dumb horror movie.

Let Zoey lean on her shoulder and Mira braid part of her hair with glow-in-the-dark threads from her hoodie string.

No one called her leader.

No one expected her to hold anything together.

They just wanted her.

Naming day arrived.

The three of them stood in front of Celine.

Unblinking. Exhausted. Steady.

“Well?” Celine asked.

Zoey stepped forward.

Mira lifted her chin.

And Rumi—Rumi took a breath.

“We have a name,” she said.

Not whispered. Not forced.

Claimed.

🦋

The cameras were already flashing when the black car pulled up.

The girls stepped out into the cold like they belonged there — not three nervous teens, but something sharper. Sleeker. Designed.

The kind of beautiful that made you stop breathing.

Zoey’s black hair was twisted into her signature twin space buns, tight and high, jet-dark against the pale lights of the venue. Thin braids framed her jawline, slick and deliberate. Her outfit was tailored black velvet with silver accents, something between performance gear and a tailored suit jacket, cropped to show muscle and movement.

Mira followed, her hair swept into a half-up, half-down ponytail that fell like a dark curtain behind her shoulders — the front strands pinned back tight, the rest flowing, giving her that impossible mix of softness and threat. Her eyes were lined in a sharp wing, and her lips were painted a bruised plum. Under the lights, she looked like a siren with secrets.

Rumi was last.

Not the smallest, not the loudest. But the one the cameras tilted for.

Her hair was swept back into a sleek knot, almost too severe — but it made her jawline look lethal, and her cheekbones like ice. Her outfit was minimal black with a silver collar that caught the light when she turned. Not quite a dress. Not quite a uniform. It didn’t need to be defined.

The banner above the flashing lights read:

✨ DEBUT: HUNTR/X — NEW YEAR’S EVE. NEW BLOOD. ✨

The press swarmed instantly.

Flashes. Microphones. Yelled questions already sparking into the cold air.

Celine was already there, standing with a perfect half-smile like she’d planned every inch of this moment. Her heels clicked against the frozen ground as she moved to the front, welcoming the media storm like it was applause.

Reporters shouted over each other.

“Celine! The group name! HUNTR/X — what does it mean?”

Celine turned toward the crowd, her tone calm but edged. “It means they don’t miss.”

That was it.

The clicks exploded again.

“Is it true you pulled strings to get them this slot?” another voice asked.

Celine smiled, eyes like steel. “Opportunity comes to those who are ready. They were ready.”

A pause, then someone called out, “We haven’t seen Rumi since she was a child. Why debut her now?”

Zoey’s jaw tensed. Mira’s brows drew slightly together. Rumi didn’t move.

Celine’s answer was smooth. “She has found her bandmates and is ready now.”

Then she stepped aside, deliberately, to let the girls take the center. Cameras surged forward.

The first real question came fast.

“Can we hear from the group? We know the name now — HUNTR/X — but who are you?”

Zoey stepped up first, cool as frost. “Zoey. Lyrics. Rap. Visuals when I’m in the mood.”

A few reporters laughed.

Mira tilted her chin. “Mira. Performance. Dance. Creative direction.”

Eyes turned to Rumi.

She met them all.

“Rumi,” she said simply. “Leader.”

The word landed with weight.

Another hand went up. “So is this a concept group? Idol-fighter hybrid?”

“We’re not a concept,” Mira said. “We’re a reality.”

“You’ll see that soon enough,” Zoey added, her smile small and a little dangerous.

Someone asked, “What sets you apart from other new groups?”

Rumi finally answered. Her voice was quiet. Measured. But it sliced through the noise.

“We don’t follow trends.”

“We make them,” Zoey said.

Celine stood behind them, hands clasped, unreadable.

Another reporter broke through: “Why now? Why debut on New Year’s Eve?”

“Because tonight ends something,” Mira said.

“And we’re what comes next,” Rumi finished.

The lights snapped.

The flashes felt like thunder.

🦋

The girls stood in the wings, already mic’d, already glowing.

The stage manager whispered a five-minute warning.

Celine stepped close, adjusting a strand of Mira’s hair with surgical precision. “You only get one first impression,” she said. “Make it cut.”

Zoey gave her a dry look. “You mean like Moonlight Sisters would’ve?”

Celine didn’t flinch. “You were welcome for vetoing that. ‘HUNTR/X’ was my compromise.”

“You still hated it,” Mira muttered.

“I still do,” Celine said, turning. “But at least it sounds like something that could bite.”

Then she paused. Looked directly at Rumi.

“This is the last moment you’ll be unknown,” she said softly. “After this… everything changes.”

She left them there.

Stage lights warmed. Music thumped in the bones of the floor.

Zoey reached out a hand, fingers curled.

Mira smacked hers into it.

Rumi followed.

Three hands. One shape.

One name.

HUNTR/X.

Let the world learn it.

Let the curtain rise.

The stage was drenched in smoke and light.

Cold blue flooded the screens. Thunder cracked through the speakers — not real thunder, but something deeper, synthetic, weaponized. Like war on a subwoofer.

Then the countdown flashed:

3.

2.

1.

HUNTR/X — GODSPEED

A blast of white.

The beat dropped hard — a metallic bass layered over fractured synths and bone-dry trap drums. The kind of sound that makes your teeth buzz.

And they were there.

Zoey front and center, buns tight, eyes darker than the sky above. She hit the first line like she was born for it — vocals fast and smooth, then spiking sharp on the pre-chorus, twisting her body like a blade with every step.

“Run through the fire with no map / I never needed directions back.”

Mira slashed in next — spin, drop, kick — her voice hard over the beat like she was cutting it apart, precise and unrelenting. Her half-up ponytail whipped like a whip-crack behind her head, catching lights like silk.

“No gods, no kings, no leash — just speed / Don’t blink or you’ll miss the whole creed.”

And then — Rumi.

She stepped forward alone for the chorus, voice low, breathy, building—

“We burn, we break / We bloom, we bleed—”

Then all three snapped into formation—

“—GODSPEED.”

The chorus exploded. Choreography fast as gunfire — arms slicing, legs hitting like kicks through the air. Each move told a story of fight, not flirtation. The crowd barely had time to blink.

FAN REACTIONS (Real-Time)

(Captured live via stream chat, forum posts, and trending hashtags)

@hanmoonie98: WHO GAVE THEM PERMISSION TO DEBUT LIKE THIS????

@idolwatcher24: rumi??? that’s rumi??? the rumi?? she’s like a whole assassin now

@speedykid07: zoey’s vocals just ended my entire lineage

@goddessmira: MIRA’S voice??????? she ATE. NO. CRUMBS.

@rookiehuntr: the choreography is unreal. they don’t move like rookies. they move like vengeance.

@cursedbyceline: lowkey hate how good Celine is at her job.

@idolfanreal: I was NOT ready for rumi to command a stage like that. leader energy is insane

The bridge dropped the tempo — the stage went dark, a spotlight lit only on Rumi. A hush fell over the crowd.

She sang alone this time.

Just her voice, raw.

“I watched the sky fall into flame / Still ran forward. Still said my name.”

Then Mira and Zoey joined behind her — arms out, reaching, almost like shadows rising.

“They called us ghosts. We learned to haunt. / Now we’re here, and we’re all you want.”

Final chorus.

No restraint. The beat slammed back in.

The girls moved like lightning, each step a weapon. Hair whipping, breath burning, lights flaring in sync with the pulse of the song. Not one mistake. Not one falter.

They hit the final line together:

“We’re not chasing — we’re leading. GODSPEED.”

Pose.

Stillness.

Silence.

Then—

SCREAMS.

🦋

The girls stood panting behind the curtain.

Rumi’s hand trembled slightly before she tucked it behind her back. Mira reached out without looking and grabbed her wrist, grounding her. Zoey leaned against the wall, eyes wide, sweat clinging to her collarbones.

They could still hear the crowd.

Could still feel the heat of it.

They didn’t speak.

Then Zoey whispered, breathless: “We did it.”

Rumi nodded, stunned.

Mira laughed — a real one, unfiltered. “We really did.”

The air tasted like adrenaline and something almost holy.

The screen outside the stage already lit up:

#HUNTRX
#GODSPEED_LIVE
#RUMI_LEADER
#ZOEY_VOCAL_KILLER
#MIRA_SLICED_ME

They weren’t rookies anymore.

They weren’t ghosts.

They were HUNTR/X.

And they’d just arrived.

Chapter Text

It had been months since HUNTR/X’s debut.

Months since their names lit up the trending charts, since Godspeed blasted onto the airwaves like a war cry in velvet. Since the industry, and the fans, started watching them like they were a fire too beautiful to look away from.

And in that time, their lives had compressed into vans, greenrooms, practice halls, cameras. Repeat.

Today was no different. Headlines buzzed like static around the hotel suite’s muted television:

“HUNTR/X Nominated for Best New Artist — All But Confirmed for a Sweep?”
“Godspeed” Becomes Fastest Rookie MV to Hit 100M in 2020
Are They Idols or Assassins? Netizens Can’t Get Enough of HUNTR/X’s Fierce Image

The room was five stars and dim with drawn curtains — a soft lull before the chaos of the next event.

Zoey was draped across one of the beds like someone who had barely made it there alive.

She groaned into the comforter, voice muffled and small. “I love that they love me,” she said, “but I hate driving into the city to drive back out just to drive in again.”

Her hand flopped up, then down again. “Is this what becoming a legend feels like? Because it just feels like motion sickness.”

Mira didn’t even look up from where she was icing her knees. “You’ve been whiny all week.”

“I’m evolving,” Zoey muttered. “Into a sentient complaint.”

But there was no bite to it. No smirk. No performative flair.

Just exhaustion. Flat and unshaped.

Rumi, seated against the window with her planner and a half-untouched protein shake, finally looked up. Her brow knit.

She had been watching Zoey for the past ten minutes. And what she saw now — the limp limbs, the flushed skin, the glassy stare at the ceiling — it was off.

Way off.

Zoey usually sparkled, even when complaining. Her whines were acrobatic. Her drama had choreography. But this? This was…

Something else.

Rumi stood slowly. Walked to the bed.

“Zo,” she said softly.

Zoey tilted her head just barely to look at her. “Yeah?”

“You feeling okay?”

“Just sleepy,” she said. “Like… melted. My legs aren’t listening.”

Rumi’s eyes narrowed.

She pressed a hand lightly to Zoey’s forehead — and felt heat bloom under her palm.

Too much.

“Shit,” she breathed. “You’re burning up.”

That snapped Mira’s attention toward them. She was on her feet in a second, already crossing the room with her lips pressed tight.

“Wait, what? Zo, since when have you been feeling like this?”

Zoey shrugged. “I dunno. A couple days? I thought it’d go away. Didn’t wanna make a thing out of it.”

Rumi stepped back, reaching for her phone. “You made it a thing.”

And just then, as if summoned by the sheer force of inconvenience, Celine swept in — all boots, blazer, and a clipboard already out.

Celine entered, her presence like a crack of thunder in a velvet box. Tailored jacket, heels too sharp, hair pinned into something severe. Her eyes skimmed the girls once — stopped on Zoey — and narrowed.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s sick,” Rumi said, voice cold and clear. “She’s not going.”

Celine blinked, once. “We’ve got press waiting. Three cameras scheduled. Fans lining the venue. No one skips.”

Rumi stepped in her path. Not a hesitation. No second-guess.

Zoey coughed behind them, weak and dry.

“She can barely stand,” Rumi said. “She’s staying here.”

Mira nodded, already dabbing Zoey’s forehead with a wet towel. “She needs rest and water, not a red carpet.”

But Celine wasn’t moved. “You’re idols. You push through.”

Rumi didn’t flinch. “She’s not pushing through this. Not with that fever.”

Celine took another step. “This is a public-facing event. We can’t send just one of you—”

“You will,” Rumi cut in.

The room dropped ten degrees.

She stood tall, eyes sharp enough to make Celine stop.

There was something new in Rumi’s stance — not just defiance, but command. The kind that didn’t scream. It just stood there and did not move.

“She’s staying,” Rumi said again, slower this time. “And Mira’s staying with her.”

Mira’s eyes widened slightly. “But I can come—”

“No.” Rumi turned just enough to face her. “She’ll rest easier if you’re here. And if anything gets worse, you’ll know what to do.”

“But—”

“That’s final,” Rumi said.

Her voice wasn’t raised. But it was steel.

Celine clicked her tongue. “And you think you can handle the interviews alone?”

“I know I can,” Rumi said. “You’ll get your footage. Your perfect soundbites. But Zoey is not getting dragged into another van today.”

The silence that followed was taut as a tripwire.

Celine’s lips pressed into a line. Her gaze flicked between the three girls, calculating.

Then — without a word — she turned and strode out, heels clipping like closing scissors.

The door shut behind her.

Rumi let out a breath.

Then turned back to the bed.

Zoey had curled slightly onto her side, eyes half-lidded. Mira sat beside her, brushing sweat-damp hair off her forehead, gently stroking a thumb over her temple.

Rumi watched them for a beat. Then picked up her coat.

“I’ll be back in two hours,” she said. “Three, max.”

“Text me,” Mira said, voice soft. “If anything changes, I’ll call.”

Zoey cracked a crooked half-smile. “Don’t say anything embarrassing on camera.”

Rumi smiled — real and tired.

“No promises.”

And then she was gone.

Alone.

Not for the first time, and not the last. But this time, she walked with purpose, not resentment.

Someone had to stand in front.

So the others could rest behind.

🦋

The venue was already humming by the time Rumi arrived.

Flashes strobed like lightning behind the velvet ropes. Reporters barked questions in clipped, excited tones. Stylists trailed behind her, smoothing her sleeves, fixing stray hairs. Her jacket — slate-black with silver accents — shimmered faintly under the spotlights, the crest of HUNTR/X glinting sharp on one side of her collar.

She didn’t flinch.

Not once.

Even without Zoey’s sarcastic smirks or Mira’s steady presence at her side, Rumi walked through the entrance like she had steel laced through her bones.

Fans screamed her name from the barricades, waving signs and lightsticks.
“RUMI UNNIE!”
“SOLO QUEEN!”
“GODDESS!”

Cameras tracked her every step — some live-streaming, others flashing incessantly. She paused exactly where she was meant to, hands behind her back, chin lifted, her profile cutting against the chaos like a blade.

The press pounced.

“Rumi! Rumi, how does it feel to be representing HUNTR/X alone today?”
“Can you tell us how Zoey and Mira are doing?”
“How does it feel to be a rookie group already nominated for five major awards?”
“Fans say you’ve got the charisma of a veteran — any comments?”
“What does the name HUNTR/X really mean to you?”

She smiled, cool and clean. Just enough to be warm. Not enough to invite.

“Zoey and Mira are resting today — they’ll be back soon,” she said, voice smooth. “We’re grateful for the love and for your support.”

The crowd roared at that. Flashes burst again.

She was perfect.

And yet — behind the eyeliner and flawless tone, Rumi felt her hands cold in her sleeves.

It wasn’t fear.

It was that tremor again. That faint, familiar edge of not-quite-there — like the body going through the motions while the soul waited just behind it, watching.

It passed as the press moved on, and she was ushered to the next table — the fan signing.

A long line waited, velvet ropes guiding them in a loop like airport queues. Staff handed her a pen. Someone placed a stack of photo cards before her. Another passed her a water bottle she didn’t open.

She sat, posture straight.

The first fan came up — shaking, beaming, holding out a signed album and stammering through thank-yous.

Rumi smiled gently. “Thank you for supporting us. I hope the music gives you strength.”

Click. Flash. Smile.

Next.

A student with trembling hands and a hand-painted sign. “You helped me survive this year,” she whispered, tears in her eyes.

Rumi paused. Looked her in the face. “Then that makes us even. Because people like you helped me.”

Click. Flash. Smile.

Next.

It went like that for fifteen minutes. Her words were clean. Polished. Honest enough to touch, distant enough to protect.

Until the next fan.

A man. Mid-twenties. Cap low. Hoodie too heavy for the event. Nothing visibly wrong — until he stepped past the barrier before staff could react.

Too close.

Rumi didn’t blink — not at first.

Not even when he reached toward her — not aggressively, but with too much entitlement. Like he thought he was owed the space around her. Like she wasn’t a person but something he’d already decided belonged to him.

His hand started to lift.

Security moved fast. A guard came from the side and intercepted him with a firm, silent grip on the shoulder. Another appeared from behind, pushing him gently but firmly away from the table. There were no shouts. No scene.

Rumi didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even look.

But her pen stopped in her hand. Her breath hitched — just enough for her chest to tighten. Her pupils dilated, and her jaw set like someone had snapped a wire taut behind her ribs.

She was still smiling.

But for three seconds — three heartbeats — she was elsewhere.

She felt cold.

Then she looked up at the next fan with perfect, practiced ease. “Next,” she said calmly. “Thank you for waiting.”

The girl stepped forward, wide-eyed. “Are you okay?” she whispered, voice small. “He—he shouldn’t have—”

“I’m fine,” Rumi said gently. “You waited your turn. That means more than you know.”

She signed the album. Even added a heart.

Flash. Smile. Breathe.

She kept signing after that. Kept answering questions. Kept performing the version of herself that the world expected: unshakeable. Beautiful. Controlled.

But when the last fan walked away, and the cameras moved on, and she was finally alone in the greenroom — she let her shoulders drop.

Her hands were still shaking, barely.

But not from weakness.

From restraint.

🦋

The hotel room was quiet.

Muted city sounds pulsed beyond the windows, faint behind thick glass. The curtains were drawn halfway, dimming the pale light of the late afternoon. A humidifier hummed faintly in the corner. Zoey’s coat lay crumpled over a chair, her boots kicked halfway under the bed.

And Zoey herself…

Zoey was melting into the mattress like someone had hit the off switch.

Face flushed, hair a mess around her pillow, arms sprawled dramatically over the comforter. A tissue box sat next to her like a resigned sidekick. She was wrapped burrito-style in two hotel blankets she claimed “felt less corporate than the others.”

Mira sat nearby on the edge of the bed, gently brushing strands of damp hair off Zoey’s forehead. A cool washcloth was folded neatly in her hand.

“You’re burning up,” she said softly.

Zoey groaned like she’d been told her entire fan club had been disbanded. “No, really, Mira? I thought the spontaneous chills and near-death coughing fit were a fashion statement.”

Mira rolled her eyes. “Still sarcastic. That’s promising.”

Zoey didn’t laugh. Not this time.

Instead, she turned her face toward the pillow, her voice muffled but panicked. “They’re gonna hate me.”

Mira blinked. “What?”

Zoey shifted again, trying to sit up, only to immediately fall back with a gasp and a hand to her head. “They’re all there. Rumi’s alone. You’re not with her. People are gonna ask. Fans are gonna notice. Someone’s gonna start a rumor—”

“Zoey—”

“—and then they’ll think I’m lazy or spoiled or ungrateful or not serious about this, and they’ll stop liking me, and Celine will be mad and—” Her breath caught.

And didn’t come back.

Mira leaned forward instantly. “Hey. Hey—look at me. Breathe.”

But Zoey couldn’t.

Her chest stuttered like it couldn’t decide how to move. Her fingers curled into the blanket. Her eyes welled — not from the fever this time, but from the rush of rising panic.

“I c-can’t—Mira I can’t—my heart’s—”

Mira didn’t wait. She shifted fully onto the bed, kneeling beside her, taking both of Zoey’s hands in her own.

“Okay. In and out,” she said calmly, like they’d practiced. “In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Count with me.”

Zoey’s breathing was jagged. Mira pressed their foreheads together gently, grounding her.

“In,” Mira whispered. “Two. Three. Four. Hold. Out. Two. Three. Four.”

Zoey gasped.

Then again.

Then finally, her shoulders began to ease. Her grip on Mira’s hands loosened slightly. She blinked hard, eyes shimmering with leftover panic.

“I hate this,” she choked. “I hate being the weak link.”

“You’re not,” Mira said firmly. “You’re not weak. You’re sick. There’s a difference.”

Zoey sniffled. “I was supposed to be there. I’m always supposed to be there.”

“You were there for all of us for months. You held us together through every meltdown, every rehearsal, every post-stage panic. You’ve never missed a single thing. Until today.”

Zoey looked away. “And that’s the one they’ll remember.”

“No, Zo,” Mira said, brushing a tear from her cheek. “They’ll remember how you danced like fire. How your voice cracked on that last note because you felt it. How you held fans’ hands like they were the only person in the room.”

Zoey’s lower lip trembled.

“You give everything to everyone. So now it’s our turn. My turn.”

Zoey was quiet.

Then — with a sigh, half-broken and half-defeated — she curled sideways into Mira’s lap like a child surrendering to sleep. Her voice was hoarse.

“Don’t let Celine put that photo on the fan cafe. I looked like death during the call.”

“I already deleted it,” Mira said, smoothing her hair. “And you still looked better than 80% of idols on their best day.”

Zoey gave a groggy chuckle. “Flatter me more, nurse Mira.”

“I will if it gets you to drink your electrolytes.”

Zoey groaned again, but took the bottle from Mira’s hand anyway.

Outside, traffic passed in soft waves. Inside, the two of them remained still — Mira keeping quiet vigil, Zoey finally letting herself not perform.

And from the other room, a message buzzed on Mira’s phone.

Rumi:
All good. Handled it.
Tell Zoey she’s still my favorite.
Even when she’s leaking tears and snot.

Mira smiled.

Maybe not the moment Zoey would want her fans to see.

But she deserved to rest. They all did.

🦋

Rumi stepped through the side exit of the hotel, her phone already to her ear.

“I’m heading out,” she said. “There’s a rift. Small. East side of the venue.”

On the other end, Mira exhaled sharply. “Do you want backup?”

“No,” Rumi said, already slipping into the shadows between the buildings. “Stay with Zoey. I’ll handle it.”

A brief pause. Then a soft: “Be careful.”

The call ended.

The moment she was alone, the shift in the air sharpened. The telltale pulse of corrupted space—it crawled against her skin, slick and oily, like something pressing through silk. The rift was close, but tight. Barely open. Just enough for something small to slip through.

Her fingers rested on the hilt of her sword. Not drawn. Not yet.

She rounded the corner—and stopped.

A figure was standing near the event perimeter. Just beyond the floodlights. Half-obscured in the shadows cast by the crowd tents.

The fan.

The one who had leaned too far over the table hours ago.

Too close.

The one whose gaze had stayed too long. Had trailed her movements like he knew her. Like she belonged to him.

Rumi hadn’t reacted then.

She didn’t know how to react.

She didn’t know what that look was supposed to mean—only that it was wrong. That it curled at the edge of her understanding in the same way a badly tuned instrument sounded off. Mismatched. Disharmonic.

Celine never explained this kind of thing.

Only this:

“Never raise your sword against a human. There’s no need. You’ll never be wanted by them.”

But now—

Behind the fan, the air warped.

Something slithered forward. A demon, low-class. Greedy. Mindless. Drawn to fixations, to obsession, to hunger too shallow to be called need.

Rumi moved instantly.

Sword out in a blur of motion.

Steel met smoke with a whispering crack, the demon evaporating in one clean cut. No drama. No roar. Just absence. Like it had never been.

The fan stumbled as if pulled from a dream, blinking toward her, pupils unfocused.

“Did you—” he started, rubbing his temple. “Was something just—?”

Rumi didn’t answer.

She didn’t even look at him.

She was still thinking of that moment earlier. Of the way his hand had brushed too close. Of how it had made something in her spine stiffen without a name.

Want wasn’t a concept she knew how to carry.

But danger? That, she understood.

And Celine’s rules still clung to her ribs like hooks:

“You fight demons. Not humans.”

Even when they looked at her like that.

Especially then.

She let her blade vanish into the Honmoon.

“You should leave,” she said evenly. “Now.”

The fan blinked, confused. “Wait, what? Wait!”

But Rumi was already walking away.

Her sword quiet at her back.

Her thoughts even quieter.

The rift had closed.

And her girls were waiting.

🦋

The room was quiet when Rumi stepped inside. Dimly lit by the soft glow of a bedside lamp, thick curtains drawn. The air smelled faintly of herbal medicine and lemon lozenges.

Zoey was curled under the duvet, flushed cheeks peeking out from under a tangle of dark buns now loosened and limp. Her breath was deep and steady—finally—even if her skin still glistened faintly with heat. Mira sat on the edge of the bed beside her, a cold cloth draped over Zoey’s forehead, her hand absently stroking her arm.

Rumi eased the door shut behind her. No noise. No steel. She moved like a shadow, stepping softly out of her boots and into the stillness.

“She’s sleeping?” she murmured.

Mira nodded without looking up. “Fever broke a little. Still hot, but not burning. Doctor came by while you were out—left meds. She took them without drama, for once.”

Rumi let out a breath. “Good.”

She crossed the room and sat in the empty chair by the window. Sighing once.

Mira glanced over. “You okay?”

Rumi nodded.

Then stopped.

Her brow furrowed, lips pressing into a line. She glanced toward Zoey. Then leaned forward, voice barely more than a whisper.

“There was a fan,” she said. “Earlier. During the signing. He looked at me weird. I didn’t think about it then, but… he was near the rift afterwards.”

Mira went still, eyes narrowing at Rumi.

Rumi continued. “Security got to him before anything happened. And I didn’t—I didn’t think it was anything. Until I saw him again. He wasn’t possessed, not fully, but something… brushed him.”

Mira’s jaw flexed.

She whispered too, tightly. “Where’s Celine?”

“Dropped me at the venue and left,” Rumi replied. “Said she was going back to the mountains for the weekend. Something about checking up on the compound.”

Mira made a sound in her throat. Not quite a word. Not quite polite.

Then, sharper: “So she left you alone at a fan event and didn’t stay for Zoey, either?”

Rumi didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

Mira’s eyes flared with quiet fury, barely restrained. Her hand never stopped moving across Zoey’s shoulder, but her whole body had stiffened.

“We need a real manager,” she said, voice still low for Zoey’s sake, but edged like glass. “Someone who actually lives in the city. Someone who doesn’t vanish every other day.”

“I know.”

“And a place here. Not just hotels and borrowed training dorms. Something ours.”

Rumi nodded again. “We’ll get there.”

Mira exhaled hard through her nose. “We better. Because I swear, if anything had happened to you—or Zoey…”

Her voice cracked slightly. She blinked fast.

“I’m fine,” Rumi said. “And Zoey’s safe.”

“But we’re always one step away from not being.”

Neither of them said anything for a while.

Only the soft whir of the heater and the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of Zoey’s breathing filled the space.

Eventually, Mira looked at Rumi again.

“I hate this,” she said quietly.

Rumi didn’t flinch.

“Me too,” she replied.

And for once, her voice sounded almost like warmth.

They stayed there—on opposite ends of the room, watching over the same girl.

And in the hush between them, something solid held.

Not peace.

But promise.

Chapter Text

The fireplace in Celine’s mountain home crackled weakly, casting pale orange light across the stone floor, but the heat didn’t reach Rumi. Her skin was cold, her fingers white from how tightly her arms were crossed over her chest. She stood near the hallway entrance, just outside the living room, her jaw locked, eyes fixed on the floorboards as she tried to collect her words before they boiled over.

Celine stood near the glass wall overlooking the dark forest below, her silhouette stiff, unreadable. She hadn’t turned around once since they’d come back from the city—not when Zoey nearly collapsed in the van from exhaustion, not when Mira angrily refused to speak to anyone during dinner, and not now, as Rumi’s voice broke through the quiet.

“I’m not doing this again,” Rumi said, each syllable measured but tight. “Dragging them up here after a fever, after four events in two days? What are you trying to prove?”

Celine finally turned, arms folding across her chest, the same defensive gesture mirrored—only sharper, more impatient. “Don’t start with me.”

“I have to,” Rumi replied, lifting her head, her voice firmer. “Because no one else will. We can’t keep going back and forth every night. It’s wasting time, draining them—and for what? To sit in silence at a house in the woods while you hide behind some idea of tradition?”

Celine’s mouth curled. “This place trains discipline. Structure. That’s what they need. Not a hotel with room service and excuses.”

“They’re not making excuses!” Rumi snapped, voice rising for the first time. “Zoey had a fever. Mira hasn’t made a joke in three days. They are trying. But they’re human, Celine. You told me that—they’re not like me.”

“They’re not,” Celine said, voice cold. “But that doesn’t mean we treat them like children. You think I had breaks when I trained? When I performed? I pushed through worse as a leader should.”

Rumi stared at her, stunned for a breath. “This isn’t about you. Or me. It’s about them. They’re not just girls trying to sing. They’re fighting monsters between photoshoots. Their lives are not normal, Celine.”

“Then they better learn to balance it. Because I’m not going to coddle them.”

“No one’s asking for coddling!” Rumi’s voice cracked on the edge of anger. “I’m asking for sleep. I’m asking for rest days. For driving less, for staying in one place longer than twelve hours. They’re running themselves into the ground.”

Celine exhaled sharply, turning away again, rubbing her brow like Rumi was a migraine that wouldn’t go away. “I don’t have time to play this game, Rumi. I’ve done my part. I trained all of you. I formed the group. I gave them a shot. If it’s so simple to run it differently, then do it your way.”

“I am,” Rumi said quietly, stepping forward, her voice no longer sharp—just iron in velvet. “But I’m telling you now—Zoey and Mira aren’t coming back up here every night. You don’t want to stay in the city? Fine. No one’s asking you to. But from now on, we’re keeping a base there. Somewhere stable. A hotel. Something. You can manage from wherever you want. But I’m not running this schedule into the dirt just because you think idols shouldn’t ask for breath.”

Celine turned slowly, her face unreadable for a long moment. Then—she smiled. Not kindly.

“You think you’re leading them now?” she asked, voice like flint. “Fine. Take the reins. Book the rooms. Handle the schedules. Juggle the fans, the managers, the sponsors. Run every rehearsal and still show up for every battle bleeding.”

“I already do.”

Celine’s eyes narrowed. A long silence stretched between them, heavy as the mountain air outside. The only sound was the dull flicker of the fire.

Finally, Celine stepped back, arms falling to her sides, shoulders loosening like she was already done with the conversation.

“Have it your way,” she said. “But don’t come crying when they start breaking.”

And then she was gone—turning sharply on her heel, disappearing down the hallway like the matter was already decided.

Rumi didn’t follow.

She stood there, unmoving, chest rising and falling with quiet intensity, until the fire flickered low and the weight of everything she’d just taken on settled around her shoulders like iron.

She would handle it.

Because someone had to.

And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Celine anymore.

🦋

That was the moment it began to unravel.

Not with a crash. Not with a breakdown. But with a quiet, constant pressure—like a single rope pulled tighter each day, stretched across the weight of a hundred silent tasks.

With Celine effectively gone—vanished back into the mountains, unreachable except for the occasional cryptic message—there was no one left to steer the ship. No new manager stepped in. No assistant called to take over the logistics. The role was simply… vacant.

So Rumi stepped into it.

She didn’t say it out loud. There was no ceremony, no declaration. She didn’t ask permission or make it a discussion. She just started doing everything that needed to be done.

She booked their hotels—double-checking which ones had quiet floors and blackout curtains so Zoey could rest more easily. She scheduled their drivers, mapped out the cleanest, fastest routes between event venues, coordinated security patrols. She liaised with makeup artists, hairstylists, stage techs, PR agents, all of them reaching out more and more as Huntr/X rose in visibility.

She rearranged meal plans so Mira would have time to eat without choking it down between costume changes. She checked every stage floor herself before Zoey danced on it. She shifted rehearsals when she noticed Mira’s voice cracking from overuse. She sent apology emails to venue managers before they could even complain about delays. She booked late-night practice rooms when the girls wanted extra dance time and sat quietly in the corner, nodding along to the rhythm, not missing a beat even as she answered texts from three different agencies at once.

And she still had to perform.

Still had to get up on stage under bright lights, poised and dangerous, the polished face of Huntr/X. She still had to slice through choreographies with the same calm precision, still had to stare down cameras with that unreadable gaze the press loved to dissect. She still had to hold a sword in one hand and a microphone in the other—while organizing press interviews, checking on their brand deals, and rechecking Zoey’s medicine schedule in the same breath.

It wasn’t until Mira pulled her aside in one of the practice studios that anyone said anything.

They were halfway through vocal drills—Rumi’s voice like a thin thread from lack of sleep—and Mira caught her elbow as she reached for her phone again.

“Rumi,” she said gently, her tone calm but edged with tension. “When did you last sleep?”

Rumi blinked, thumb still hovering over the screen. “On the drive here.”

“That was 20 minutes. You were answering emails while asleep, Rumi.”

Zoey looked up from across the room, towel draped around her shoulders, dark hair damp from practice. Her brows were furrowed, her expression worried but trying not to be obvious about it.

“Rumi,” she added, her voice small, “we can help. I mean it. You don’t have to do everything.”

Rumi didn’t look up. She slid her phone into her pocket and offered them both a faint smile, sharp and too calm to be comforting.

“I’ve got it under control.”

“But—” Mira started, stepping closer.

“I’ve got it,” Rumi repeated, softly but final.

That was how she always said it.

Not angry. Not impatient. Just quiet. Solid. Like a door closing.

After that, they let it go—for the moment. But Zoey watched her slump forward in the van ride back to the hotel that night, head nearly dropping to Mira’s shoulder before she caught herself, blinking rapidly as though waking from a blackout. Mira watched her stir noodles in a cup she never ate from, eyes glassy with exhaustion. They saw her nod off in green rooms, only to snap awake the moment someone said her name, as if her body had trained itself not to sleep longer than a minute.

Her naps weren’t restful. They were defensive. Fleeting. Fifteen minutes curled in the van with her hoodie drawn tight. Two minutes slumped behind the dressing partition. Sometimes she fell still beside Mira or Zoey during costume changes, her head tilting ever so slightly their way, like she could borrow a second of stillness from their presence.

She kept pushing. Kept running schedules tighter than a drum.

Booking late-night practice spaces when every other group had gone home. Stepping in to talk to staff when Mira’s voice wore thin. Covering for Zoey when her cough came back. Fixing lighting issues, double-checking cue sheets, reminding everyone of what came next.

She never complained. She never stopped.

Rumi never said no.

She just kept adding more to her plate.

She slept when she could.

If you could even call it sleep.

Sometimes it meant slipping into a power-nap in the back of the van, her seatbelt barely fastened, her phone laid flat in her lap like a weight tethering her to the world. Her head would tip sideways, sometimes into the window, sometimes onto Mira’s shoulder without a word exchanged. Her phone always buzzed faintly in her grip—like a second heartbeat, reminding her of all the things still waiting.

If she was lucky, she got five minutes.

Ten, maybe, on a traffic-heavy stretch across the Han river.

Once, during the lead-in to a red carpet interview, she collapsed into Zoey mid-sentence. They had been standing backstage, lights bright, fans screaming from beyond the velvet rope. Rumi had just glanced down at her phone when her legs buckled, her body tilting. Zoey caught her instinctively, startled, both hands gripping Rumi’s arms.

“Whoa—Rumi?”

Rumi blinked slowly, lips already forming the reflexive lie. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“That wasn’t tired,” Zoey whispered, voice tight. “That was blackout.”

“I’m awake now.”

And she was. Standing upright again, as if nothing had happened, as if her knees hadn’t given out without warning.

Zoey gave her a long, worried look. But didn’t press it. She never did when Rumi spoke with that razor-flat calm.

Mira, however, didn’t hold back.

Back in the van after the event, Mira gently pulled Rumi toward her and guided her head down into her lap. Her fingers combed through Rumi’s bangs like water smoothing over stone.

“Sleep,” she murmured. “No phone. No updates. Just sleep.”

And Rumi did—her breath evening out in less than a minute. Mira and Zoey watched the tension drop from her features like a mask slipping off. For four entire minutes, she was still.

Then her eyes snapped open, wild and electric. She shot upright.

“There’s an event sheet I didn’t check—”

“It can wait,” Mira hissed, hand on her wrist.

But it didn’t. Not in Rumi’s mind.

Because nothing could wait—not when the scaffolding of their careers, their safety, their lives felt like it all depended on her shoulders holding steady.

And beneath the surface, the cracks deepened.

She started forgetting things. Not big things. Not yet. But little ones. Her hotel room number. Whether she’d already emailed the lighting tech for the next fanmeet. Her place in the choreo—just once, for a blink of a second during rehearsal—and it scared her more than anything else had in weeks.

She misdialed a contact she’d spoken to three times that week. Missed texts after midnight—not because she ignored them, but because her fingers just stopped moving, her grip going slack around her phone as she drifted off somewhere between waking and not.

Her body was loud with its protests.

Her joints ached with every movement, a deep, grinding fatigue that no stretch could ease. New callouses formed on her hands from holding her sword too tight, for too long. Her ankles were bruised from dance heels, her knees scraped from two collapses she didn’t tell anyone about. The bruises were deep purple under stage makeup. Her arms trembled slightly when she lifted the sword in the nights.

And still, she fought.

The rifts hadn’t stopped.

If anything, they came more often now—thin cracks in the fabric of reality bleeding darkness into alleys, rooftops, and the backs of glittering venues. It was as if the demons could smell her exhaustion, her frayed edges. As if they knew.

And still, Rumi fought. Because she always had.

But something had changed.

Not in her sword—though even that felt heavier now, like it had grown tired of itself—but in the way Zoey and Mira moved beside her.

They were still learning. Still newer to the blade than she’d ever been. But they’d fought enough battles now to hold their own. And when they moved through the wave of demons, they did it with quiet certainty—stepping in front of Rumi before she could take the lead.

They didn’t say it aloud. They never would.

But their stances shifted. Their weight settled more forward. Mira would take the flank, woldo gleaming through the mist, while Zoey’s daggers darted like falling stars, each one sharp and precise. They pushed the demons back with increasing speed—Mira anchoring the field with clean arcs of power, Zoey cutting through smaller ones before they could regroup.

And Rumi?

She held the center, but more defensively now. Her stance wider, her guard higher. She parried, deflected, intercepted—keeping the demons from slipping through—but she no longer charged first.

The others were doing that now.

At first, she told herself it was strategy. She told herself she was guiding them. That she was letting them grow. But the truth was quieter, more brutal.

She was tired.

Her arms trembled after just a few swings. Her breath came too fast by the end of each skirmish. Her sword, once a seamless extension of her body, now dragged a half-second behind her intent.

And they noticed.

They didn’t say it, but they noticed.

So Mira swung harder. Zoey moved faster. They pushed forward with everything they had, until they were taking out the bulk of the swarm before Rumi even reached the center.

One night, after they closed a rift behind the back of a hotel—pink mist and dust still clinging to their boots—Rumi leaned against the alley wall, trying to slow her breathing.

Zoey offered her a bottle of water without a word.

Rumi took it.

Mira glanced at her, not saying anything either—but her brows were drawn, her knuckles raw. She didn’t need to say we’re doing this because we’re worried about you.

It was written in the way she stood between Rumi and the rift even after it had closed.

Rumi swallowed the last of the water and forced a breath into her chest.

“I’m fine,” she said, because that was what she always said. “You two are getting stronger.”

Zoey smiled, a little too quickly. “Yeah, well… someone has to carry you eventually, right?”

Mira didn’t smile. She just looked at Rumi. Really looked.

“Don’t make us start fighting you too,” she said.

And that was the end of it.

From then on, they didn’t let Rumi lead every battle. They flanked her, stepped forward, carved a path through the dark. Let her fall back into the space she never would have given herself.

Let her protect without burning out.

It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t erase the long nights, the schedules, the weight Rumi carried like armor. But it gave her room—just enough—to stay standing. To survive another day.

And somewhere deep inside her, where she wouldn’t dare speak it aloud, Rumi felt it.

Relief.

And something else she couldn’t name.

Something like being cared for.

🦋

Rumi was a master of sleepless nights.

She ran on cold coffee, willpower, and whatever shreds of adrenaline were still left in her after a week of stage rehearsals, photo shoots, and the endless grind of managing a group Celine no longer truly led.

Three days before their first major idol award show, she hadn’t slept more than twenty minutes in a row. Not with another rift opening near their recording studio. Not with the schedules piling up like an avalanche she couldn’t quite outrun.

But while Rumi frayed, Mira and Zoey adapted. They became professionals at forcing her to stop.

“Head down. Ten minutes. No arguing,” Mira would say in the van, dragging her lap under Rumi’s head like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Zoey got sneakier—canceling non-essentials from the schedule behind Rumi’s back, bribing stylists with baked goods to reschedule fittings so Rumi wouldn’t miss meals.

They asked Celine for help. Multiple times. A real manager. A staff liaison. A body to share the weight Rumi had taken on without ever being asked.

But Celine’s answer never changed:
“Rumi said she could handle it. She will.”

And somehow, Celine always took the praise when the group received compliments for their efficiency, their organization, their balance.
Not that she’d done more than show up once with her usual icy presence and a new wardrobe.

That wardrobe was for the Met Gala.

And it nearly shattered Mira.

The day the outfits arrived, Zoey was the first to react—her expression going from impressed to baffled to vaguely alarmed as she held up her own piece. A sleek, deep blue number with far too much leg.
Rumi’s dress was bold but still functional: dark, sharp-lined, warrior-chic.

Then Mira stepped out of the dressing room.

Silence.

Zoey’s eyes went wide. Rumi blinked once. Twice. Mira looked down—and froze.

Her skirt wasn’t just short. It was indecent.

One step and—

“No,” Mira whispered.

She tugged the hem down. It barely helped.

“I— I can’t wear this,” she choked out, face pale beneath her makeup. “I won’t wear this.”

Zoey stepped forward immediately, voice rising. “What the hell is this, Celine?!”

Across the room, Celine stood by the mirror, arms crossed, entirely unmoved.

“It’s bold,” she said coolly. “Fashion-forward. Makes a statement.”

“It makes her exposed,” Zoey snapped.

“She’s eighteen,” Celine said with a shrug. “Internationally legal. Besides, controversy builds interest. People will talk.”

“They‘re teenagers,” Rumi said, voice flat, but deadly quiet. “You don’t get sell our body’s for likes.”

Celine turned to her, expression unreadable. “Don’t be dramatic. This is about pushing boundaries. Artistry. Identity.”

Rumi looked at Mira again—her shoulders stiff, her jaw clenched, her eyes suspiciously glossy. She hadn’t cried. Not yet. But she was close.

And something inside Rumi cracked.

She turned to Celine, voice strangely calm. “We’ll meet you at the gala. Don’t worry—we’ll wear the outfits.”

Zoey’s head snapped toward her. “What?!”

Mira blinked, shocked into silence.

Celine raised a brow. “See? I knew you’d get it.”

Rumi didn’t reply. She just walked toward their shared garment bags after Celine had left, casually rummaging through their travel duffels—and pulled out the most absurd, sleep-deprived solution she could think of.

A black sleeping bag.

Mira stared.

“Rumi…?”

Rumi turned, smiling in a way that was far too smug for someone running on three hours of total sleep in this week. She unzipped the sleeping bag and draped it around Mira’s shoulders like a designer wrap.

“There,” she said. “Your jacket for the gala.”

Zoey coughed, somewhere between horrified and impressed. “You are not serious.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely serious.” Rumi fastened the velcro near the collar. “She’s warm. She’s covered. She’s making a statement. Just not the one Celine wants.”

Mira’s hands trembled as she clutched the sides of the sleeping bag—but then she looked up.

Rumi wasn’t joking.

More importantly: she wasn’t asking permission.

Rumi stepped back, crossing her arms with satisfaction. “It’s our image. We decide what it looks like.”

For the first time since trying on the cursed dress, Mira exhaled. A real breath.

And maybe—maybe the sleeping bag was absurd. But in that moment, wrapped in its soft black folds, Mira felt protected. Not ridiculed.

Seen.

Celine would throw a fit. The press might too.

But as the three girls stood there, framed by cheap hotel lighting and a pile of glittering chaos—

They smiled.

Together.

And that was all that mattered.

🦋

The red carpet at the Met Gala wasn’t a place for mercy.

The lights were relentless, the cameras rapid-fire, and the media thirsted for any misstep like wolves scenting blood in snow.

And the moment the girls of HUNTR/X stepped out of their black van, the atmosphere shifted.

The crowd surged forward with shouts of “Rumi!” and “Mira! Zoey!”—and dozens of camera shutters clicked like rapid gunfire.

At the edge of the carpet, Celine stood flanked by a line of PR handlers and sponsors, lips drawn tight as she watched them approach. Her arms folded. Her heels clicked against marble.

Her glare was volcanic.

Zoey stepped out first, bold in her blue. She hadn’t covered up her dress, but she wore it her way: sharp shoulders back, makeup vivid and smirking. Her energy screamed I know what I’m wearing, and I dare you to question it.

Rumi was next—sleek in black with metallic edges, her neckline structured and sharp like armor. A single silver earring glinted against her high braid. Her expression was unreadable, gaze cutting straight through the cameras. A shield behind a smile.

And then came Mira.

Wrapped in a black sleeping bag.

Except she wasn’t hiding anymore.

Rumi had styled it with a belt and heels, the top folded down into a mock collar. Mira had added bold makeup, wet-look hair slicked back with silver glitter on her cheeks. She strutted—not walked, strutted—with the girls on either side of her, all chin and confidence, like this had been the plan from the beginning.

Even Celine blinked.

The scandalous dress was nowhere in sight.

Just Mira. Ownable. Powerful. Unapologetic.

Mira’s smile was small at first—until Zoey bumped her with a shoulder and Rumi leaned over, whispering something that made her laugh.

Celine’s expression soured further.

The press went wild.

“Over here! HUNTR/X, eyes this way!”
“Mira, what’s the inspiration for your look tonight?!”
“Who designed it? Is this… North Face couture?”
“Is that an actual sleeping bag?!”

Rumi stepped forward, lips curling into a sly half-smile.

She adjusted her mic and said, cool and calm as a summer moon:

“We just wanted to be comfortable. Fashion should never cost you dignity.”

The reporters loved it.

Flashes exploded in a full burst as they laughed and gasped and jotted notes. Mira struck a pose. Zoey crossed her arms, flashing peace signs with both hands. Rumi held steady at the center, one hand on Mira’s shoulder, unbothered and serene.

Celine didn’t speak to them the entire time they were inside.

She didn’t need to.

The moment they returned to the van post-event, Mira fell back into her seat, pulling the sleeping bag up like a real coat now. “Did we just… actually do that?”

Rumi, half-smiling, replied, “Mira, you rocked it.”

Zoey fist-bumped her. “You’re a walking meme right now. Twitter’s going to crown you queen of survival glam.”

Mira flushed, laughing as she hugged the sleeping bag closer. “Remind me to burn that dress later.”

“Already done,” Rumi muttered. And she meant it.

Chapter Text

The sleeping bag moment broke the internet before they even made it inside the venue.

@kfashiondreams:
MIRAAAAAAA??? IN A SLEEPING BAG?????? AND STILL SERVING?? HUNTR/X just said “fashion is fake and dignity is forever” and honestly?? I’m obsessed. #MetGala #Huntrx

@nytimesfashion:
Tonight, HUNTR/X broke more than expectations on the red carpet. In a statement ensemble repurposed from a black sleeping bag, member Mira turned discomfort into armor, while leader Rumi answered with poise and precision. Their rebellion was subtle but deafening.

@metgalaofficial:
Unexpected, Unapologetic, Unforgettable. #HuntrX #MetGala2020

Within an hour, there were memes, fan edits, and reaction videos flooding every corner of social media. “Sleeping bag chic” trended worldwide. Mira’s name surged in searches, Zoey’s glare in the background of several press shots became a new GIF staple, and Rumi’s quote had already been printed onto fan-made t-shirts.

The hotel’s ballroom side entrance was quiet—too quiet.

The last flashes from photographers had barely faded when the heavy door clicked shut behind them. The echoes of cheers and shutter clicks were cut off like someone had flipped a switch.

All that was left was the sterile overhead lighting, the faint hum of the ice machine down the hall, and Celine, waiting with her arms crossed so tightly it looked like she was holding herself back from lunging.

Her jaw was sharp, clenched hard enough to crack her molars. She didn’t greet them. Didn’t ask how the red carpet went.

She just looked at Mira—and then at the sleeping bag still wrapped fashionably around her—and her eyes went cold.

“You think that was funny?” she asked, voice low but biting. “Humiliating your stylists? Undermining your image?”

Her eyes didn’t leave Mira’s, but the blame in her tone landed squarely on Rumi.

Zoey stepped in before the silence thickened further, chin raised in challenge. “What image are you even aiming for? Embarrassment? Objectification?”

Celine didn’t blink. “It got attention. That’s the job. Or do you want to go back to being nobody trainees waiting outside showcase venues?”

Her voice wasn’t loud. It was calm. Calm in that condescending, dangerously rational tone that made Rumi’s shoulders stiffen immediately.

“And if Mira had told me she was uncomfortable,” Celine added with a saccharine smile, “we would’ve found something else. You didn’t say anything, Mira.”

Mira blinked—shocked for a beat. Then furious. “I didn’t have the time to. You just dropped the outfits on us hours before the event.’”

Celine made a noise—dismissive. “Well, I can’t read minds. If you didn’t say anything, how was I supposed to know?”

Rumi stepped forward then, her voice like ice scraping glass. “You knew. You just didn’t care.”

That did make Celine snap.

Her whole body turned toward Rumi like a blade unsheathing. “You need to learn when to stop inserting yourself. You think just because you’re covering their schedules now, you get to undermine every decision I make?”

“I’m protecting them,” Rumi said, unwavering.

Celine’s voice dipped into a venomous whisper. “And I’m protecting the brand.”

There was a pause—an eerie, sharp stillness in the space between them.

Then Zoey jumped in, trying to defuse the fuse before it burned down to the dynamite. “Celine—please. This isn’t working. We need a real manager. Rumi’s running herself into the ground. She hasn’t slept in days.”

Mira nodded. “She’s collapsing between red carpets and demon hunts. It’s not safe. She won’t stop unless someone makes her.”

Celine sighed—dramatic, exasperated. She softened her face when she turned back to Zoey and Mira. “Girls. I understand, I do. But it’s not that simple. A human manager can’t just walk into this world. How do you expect me to explain rift tracking? Demon suppression protocols? Media shielding enchantments?”

Her tone was smooth now. Almost pitying. “You want someone to handle your emails and fetch coffee. But what happens when a demon breaches a dressing room? Will your sweet little manager even see it coming?”

Zoey opened her mouth to argue again—but Celine gently laid a hand on her arm, smiling like a mother soothing a tantrum.

“I know it’s hard. But Rumi said she could handle it. She asked to take over. And I trust her.”

Behind her, Rumi flinched.

Because it wasn’t trust. It was leverage.
It was burden painted as belief.

Celine turned back toward the exit, smoothing a wrinkle from her blouse like this had all been an inconvenient detour in her evening.

“You’d better channel that creativity into your Idol Awards performance,” she said over her shoulder. “Because if you flop there, not even a sleeping bag will save you.”

And just like that, she walked off—heels clicking on marble, leaving a silence so taut it could snap with a breath.

Zoey exhaled, fists clenched. Mira looked like she wanted to throw something.

Rumi… just stood there.

And for the first time, neither girl looked at her for guidance.

Because they could see what Celine had made of her:
A shield.
A schedule.
A scapegoat in leader’s clothing.

🦋

The sleeping bag had gone viral.

It wasn’t just a red carpet moment anymore. It was a statement, a symbol. Fan edits looped Mira twirling in it, articles were calling it “the rebellion of the year,” and major designers were sliding into DMs to ask if they wanted custom work. Even international press picked it up—“Idol Girls Rewrite Fashion Rulebook.”

The problem?

Everyone wanted a piece of them.

And every one of those requests—interviews, meet-and-greets, stylists trying to rebrand the group overnight, producers demanding a second look at choreography—all landed on Rumi’s desk. Because Celine had already “delegated responsibility,” and no one dared question it.

And Rumi, being Rumi, didn’t say no.

She couldn’t.

Not when it was working.
Not when Zoey’s smiles were brighter and Mira walked taller.
Not when they were so close to the Idol Awards.

So she made it work.

Even if it was killing her.

She lived in a state of motion.
Back-to-back fittings, calls, stage prep, meal coordination, room confirmations, makeup touch-ups, safety run-throughs, set reviews, light cue walk-throughs, social post scheduling, damage control for a misinterpreted quote Zoey gave about fashion, confirming Mira’s updated dance marks after a layout change—

And still, training.
Still, performing.
Still, fighting demons in the alley behind their rehearsal studio because a rift had opened behind the power generator and the sulfur stench hit her like a migraine.

Mira and Zoey had to pull her back from the line of fire that night.

“Defensive stance, Rumi,” Mira had snapped, ducking low under a demon’s claw, her own woldo cleaving through black ichor. “You’re sluggish.”

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not!” Zoey shouted, shoving a small lesser demon off Rumi’s flank with a glowing sigil and burning hands. “You almost got hit! Rumi—look at me! You’re bleeding—”

Rumi hadn’t even realized it. Her arm was sliced. Shallow, but it stung.

Still, she only hissed, gripped her sword tighter, and swung one final arc that dropped the last creature with mechanical precision.

Afterward, Zoey sat her down on a crate behind the dumpster and shoved a water bottle into her hand. “One of these nights, you’re not gonna get back up,” she whispered.

Rumi stared ahead, still breathing too fast. Her eyes were blank. “Then I won’t have to schedule the press junket.”

Back at the hotel, Mira forced her into a chair and pulled out her laptop.

“You’re not doing call sheets tonight,” she said, fingers already typing.

“I need to—”

“No. You need to sleep.”

But sleep had become a ghost for Rumi—something she chased, not something she caught. She would close her eyes for a moment, only for her phone to buzz. Or her body to jolt awake from habit. Once, she dreamed that she had slept and missed the awards entirely. She woke up hyperventilating in the middle of the night, fists clenched, jaw aching from grinding her teeth.

Her micro-naps grew shorter and more involuntary.
She fell asleep during a dress rehearsal. On the floor. Mid-song.

The choreographer thought she’d fainted. Zoey caught her again.

Mira made her tea. Zoey tried rubbing her back during van rides.

Rumi still answered every email.

She booked three interviews on the same day, then double-booked their backup dancers. She tried to fix it by skipping lunch and rehearsal to call the studio heads directly, only to forget her own lines when the performance director called her up for a vocal check.

The look on her face when she realized she was the one holding the group back?

It nearly broke Zoey’s heart.
And Mira’s silence afterward was thick with a kind of helpless rage.

The night before the Idol Awards, she didn’t sleep at all.

She said she had to confirm lighting cues.
In truth, she’d been staring at her phone for an hour, eyes glassy, the screen unreadable through the haze.

Her fingers moved, typing, retyping, sending the same schedule three times because she wasn’t sure if she had already hit send.

And when she finally stood to change, her knees buckled so fast she had to grip the vanity to stay upright.

That was the moment Mira said enough.

“We’re calling someone,” she said. “Manager, assistant, publicist—I don’t care. Celine won’t do it? We’ll find someone who will.”

“No,” Rumi whispered.

“Rumi—”

“No. Just let me get through this performance. Just one more.”

Her voice trembled.

But she smiled anyway. A cracked, exhausted thing that no longer reached her eyes.

“After the awards,” she said.

Zoey knelt down beside her and took her hand.

“You’ve earned a break, Rumi. Even warriors sleep.”

Rumi didn’t answer. Her head dropped forward, her shoulders trembling slightly.

She was already asleep.

On her feet.

🦋

The dressing room hummed with low tension. Soft lights reflected off sequins, stage monitors flickered with the live feed just one room away, and stylists whispered in corners.

But the quietest part of the room was also the most tense.

Rumi was sitting at the makeup table, slouched but awake, eyes bloodshot and still typing into her phone, barely blinking.

Mira snatched it from her hands.

“Hey—” Rumi croaked, body jerking up as if electrified.

“No.” Mira’s voice was firm. Final. “We’re not doing this again. You’re not doing call sheets backstage. The performance is in two hours. We need you on that stage, not some overcooked ghost with an Excel spreadsheet.”

“Mira, I have to—”

Mira stood up, flipped Rumi’s laptop closed, and tucked both devices into the locked wardrobe trunk like she was sealing away a demon.

“You have to sleep,” Zoey added, kneeling in front of Rumi and gently cupping her hand. “Please. Just one hour. We’ll wake you. The outfits are ready. The mics are checked. Mira and I already talked to the production team. There’s nothing left for you to fix. It’s okay to rest.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Mira said sharply. Then softer, “You trust us, don’t you?”

Rumi hesitated.

And then—slowly, like crumbling stone—she nodded.

They made a little nest of coats and stage blankets under the full-length mirror. Zoey brought a warm compress for her eyes. Mira pulled down the lights and stood guard at the door.

“Sixty minutes,” Zoey whispered, brushing Rumi’s bangs aside. “We promise.”

Rumi was out in less than one.

🦋

The lights were dimmed low, almost atmospheric.

Then a single heartbeat thud of a bass rolled through the venue—deep and distorted, like it had crawled up from the earth.

The crowd screamed.

The screen behind the stage flared to life with abstract, ink-stained visuals: shadows twisting into human forms, wings of smoke, limbs breaking into pixels. Then three silhouettes stepped out from behind a curtain of smoke.

But this wasn’t their debut style.

This was something sharp.
Something honest.

Their new song—“No Mask / No Mercy”—wasn’t just a performance. It was a defiance. It was a confession wrapped in beat drops and floor-rattling bass.

Zoey’s voice hit like a knife dragged through silk—

“I played perfect / Painted skin / Pretty smile with the rage held in / Talk soft, walk light, eyes down, heart tight / And they wonder why I burn bright in the night.”

She owned the stage, swaggering with that tight, coiled tension of someone who had something to say and no intention of holding back. Her movements were sharp—shoulder pops, precision footwork, a spin-kick on the final line.

Mira flowed in—elegant, but furious.

“I trained ‘til my feet bled / Learned grace with the pain fed / Held up the mirror they gave me / Now I dance with the pieces instead.”

Mira’s choreography shone—fluid, devastating, built on grounded stances and sweeping arm patterns. At the center was a spinning leap she’d invented: low squat, twist up into a butterfly turn that landed like a blade sinking into stone.

Together, their harmonies were fire and ice.

“No mask / No mercy / This is me / No shame, no pretty fantasy / I fight in daylight, cry in starlight / Burn for the truth they’re scared to see.”

Their voices collided—Zoey’s bite, Mira’s clarity, Rumi’s depth. And when Rumi stepped forward—

She didn’t falter.

Not once.

“I broke my back building the image you crave / But I’m more than what smiles in frames / I bleed, I breathe, I wake and repeat / But I’m done dancing just for your praise.”

Her voice soared. Rich. Clean. Not a crack. No strain. It held the room by its throat.

And then they saw the Honmoon shimmering above the audience. The blue protective barrier gaining strength from them.

Celine stood in the shadows behind the curtain, arms crossed.

Her eyes were locked on the stage as the girls bowed, still catching their breath, still glowing under the lights.

The crowd was chanting. Chanting their name.

Huntr/x
Huntr/x.
Huntr/x.

Celine’s lips lifted into a small, inscrutable smile.

The camera panned over to her just as the lights came up—and she straightened, face blanking, expression morphing into polite professionalism. Her posture was poised. Her smile cool.

The crowd watching from screens didn’t see the small glint in her eyes.
Didn’t see her fingers clench just slightly.
Didn’t hear the faint sound of her jaw grinding for half a second before she composed herself again.

When Zoey glanced back and caught her eye, Celine smiled more warmly.

“Well done,” she mouthed. “Beautiful.”

But Zoey didn’t quite believe it.

🦋

It was official.

Huntr/x: Rookie of the Year – Group Category.

The announcement sent the crowd into a roar of light sticks and screams. The three girls were ushered on stage with the cameras zoomed in tight—Zoey beaming, Mira proud and polished, and Rumi… steady.

From the outside, she looked poised. Calm. A picture of elegance in their custom black-on-metallic outfits, all sharp collars and flowing asymmetry.

But inside?

The moment they stepped under the lights again, the adrenaline started bleeding out of her veins like sand through cracked fingers.

They stayed for a short post-win interview—one of those polished stage-side segments streamed to millions.

“Congratulations to Huntr/x—Rookie Group of the Year!” the host beamed. “How does it feel?”

Zoey took point, answering with her usual warmth and ease. Mira added her thanks to fans, stylists, choreographers, even the tech team. Rumi offered her words too—measured, grateful, practiced.

But somewhere around the third question, something shifted.

The lights were too warm.
The sound buzzed oddly in her ears.
And her throat—it suddenly felt dry. Bone dry.

Her words stuttered halfway through an answer.

“Rumi?” the interviewer prompted gently.

Rumi blinked, swayed.

Mira noticed instantly. A subtle lean forward, hand out. But Rumi just nodded slightly and whispered:

“Sorry. Just… adrenaline crash. I’ll wait for you backstage.”

She turned away before either of them could argue.

The hallway stretched ahead like a tunnel of stale gold and buzzing fluorescence. The show’s roar was distant now—muted thunder behind thick ballroom doors. Rumi’s boots clicked against the floor, slow and steady, each step a mountain.

Her limbs felt loose, boneless, like she’d left herself on the stage and only the shape of her remained, filled with air and static.

She just had to make it to the dressing room. Just twenty feet. Ten.

“Hey,” a voice said, low and neutral.

A tap on her elbow.

She blinked. A staff member—beige headset, generic lanyard, clipboard tucked under one arm. Standard.

Unremarkable.

“Water?” they offered, already unscrewing the bottle cap like they knew she wouldn’t say no.

Rumi reached for it without thinking. Her fingers barely wrapped around the plastic. The coolness of the water against her lips was a shock—sharp, bright, a jolt of something that made her eyes flutter open a little too wide.

For a second, it helped.

And then it didn’t.

The hallway dipped sideways.

It was slow, almost graceful. Like the floor had leaned to one side and taken her with it. Her breath caught. Her legs didn’t respond. She stumbled forward with the clumsy gait of someone walking through water, knees softening with every step.

But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

She reached the door.

Their door.

Fingers scraped at the metal handle, missed. Her shoulder slammed gently into it, too weak to push it open. But it must’ve been ajar, or maybe she’d accidentally triggered the latch, because the next second—

She fell through it.

Onto the floor. The door closed behind her.

Rumi didn’t remember hitting the carpet.

The chill of the air conditioning kissed her cheek. Her fingers twitched where they’d landed, curled against the floor. The water bottle slid off her grip with a dull, padded thump.

And then the lights behind her eyes went dark.

Outside the room, the staffer’s eyes glinted.

He’d heard the fall. The soft, muffled whump of someone collapsing inside.

Perfect.

He smiled—no longer a bland little upward curve, but something tight, feral. A glint of tooth behind his lips. He didn’t reach for his radio. Didn’t look around for help. He just stepped forward, hand already closing around the doorknob.

The wolf had found the lamb.

His fingers twisted the handle.

🦋

Bobby moved through the backstage corridors with the quiet efficiency that had made him a good manager over the years. Tonight was the last stop on a long, grueling night—the final act complete, his idols already scattered in the chaos of goodbyes, press interviews, and post-show exhaustion. His job was simple now: coordinate rides, make sure everyone got home safely. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was important. Bobby took pride in these small moments—he knew the world saw the stars on stage, but it was the little details backstage that kept them shining.

Even as he went about his duties, Bobby’s eyes caught glimpses of familiar faces, and a part of him couldn’t help but feel that fanboy spark whenever one of his favorite groups appeared nearby. Huntr/x had been on his radar for a while now. Their energy was electric, their performances unforgettable—and their leader, with her striking purple hair and fierce presence, had earned a quiet respect from him.

So when he spotted that flash of purple from down a dim hallway, Bobby’s heart lifted for a moment. Relief, even—he wanted to see them again, to watch them celebrate just a little longer. But as he moved closer, something unsettled him. The girl wasn’t standing tall and proud like on stage. She looked tired—no, more than tired. Exhausted. Her movements were sluggish, her posture off. She wasn’t steady on her feet.

A staff member stepped toward Rumi, holding out a water bottle with a bland smile—too casual, too rehearsed.

Bobby’s pulse spiked.

Idols never accepted drinks from strangers. Never without security hovering nearby. Never without crystal-clear trust. Every manager knew that rule like a sacred law, carved into the back of their minds after countless horror stories. This was a line crossed.

Bobby’s eyes locked on the scene, every muscle tightening, senses sharpening.

Then it happened.

Rumi’s foot faltered, catching on thin air as if the floor had betrayed her. Her body pitched forward—slow, terrifyingly slow—as if the weight of exhaustion had finally broken her.

There was a sudden, hollow thud as she collided with the heavy wooden doorframe, the sound sharp and echoing, cutting through the backstage murmur like a gunshot.

The door rattled under her impact, a sickening creak as it gave way.

Bobby heard it—the sharp, sudden noise—and his head snapped even more in her direction.

The staffer’s smile twisted, eyes gleaming with something cold and cruel.

His hand was already creeping toward the door handle, fingers curling possessively, ready to push it open again and seal his trap.

But Bobby was faster.

In one fluid, unstoppable motion, he closed the distance, his fist a blur.

The strike landed with a brutal crack against the man’s nose—bone shattering under the force.

The staffer staggered backward, clutching his bleeding face, his grin wiped away by shock and pain.

“Security!” Bobby’s voice cut through the corridor like a blade, sharp and commanding.

Within seconds, the air buzzed with movement as guards swarmed in, their presence filling the hallway.

Mira and Zoey burst through the fast building crowd, faces pale, eyes wide with fear and urgency.

Bobby didn’t take his eyes off the fallen man.

He didn’t know the girl yet. He didn’t need to.

He knew—without a doubt—that he was going to protect her.

🦋

Mira and Zoey were just wrapping up their final interview of the night, exchanging tired but relieved glances. “Celine can handle the rest,” Zoey said quietly, already moving toward the backstage entrance.

They had barely taken two steps into the dim corridor when a sharp, angry voice cut through the ambient murmur—a man shouting for security.

“Security!”

The words hit them like a cold wave. Instant dread filled their chests.

Without hesitation, Mira and Zoey exchanged a glance and sprinted toward the sound, weaving through the fast-growing crowd of staff and idols converging near the dressing rooms.

As they pushed forward, Mira’s eyes locked on a figure in the crowd—a man clutching his nose, blood seeping between his fingers, face contorted in shock and pain.

Her heart thundered.

The shout still echoed in the corridor as Mira tore the dressing room door open.

The room inside felt too quiet. Wrong.

Then her eyes found Rumi—and her breath caught in her throat.

Rumi was on the floor.

Her body lay crumpled just inside the threshold, as if she’d barely made it through before collapsing. One arm was curled awkwardly under her, the other still half-extended toward the dropped water bottle—now tipped on its side, leaking in slow rivulets across the tile. A soft puddle soaked into the hem of her jacket.

Her purple hair fanned out around her like silk spun too thin. Her face was pale—too pale—and slack in the stillness of unconsciousness. Lips parted slightly. No tension in her limbs. No reaction.

She wasn’t waking up.

“Rumi!” Zoey cried, dropping to her knees with a thud beside her.

She reached immediately for Rumi’s wrist, fingers pressing against clammy skin. The pulse was there—but thready. Slow. Too slow.

“Come on, Ru—wake up. Please.”

She gently tilted Rumi onto her side, making sure she could breathe, brushing the strands of hair from her face. Her hands trembled. “Hey. You’re safe now. We’re here. Wake up.”

But Rumi didn’t stir.

Not even a flinch.

It was more than sleep. This wasn’t exhaustion alone—this was wrong.

Mira’s chest surged with a heat that drowned out the fear. Her gaze snapped back to the man just outside the room—the “staffer” still holding his broken, bloodied nose, stunned. Recoiling.

Celine had taught them the dangers hidden behind the glitz and glamor—this was a nightmare come to life.

The anger inside Mira flared, hot and fierce.

Her jaw clenched, eyes narrowing into sharp slits.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she surged forward in two powerful strides, closing the distance between her and the man.

Her fist connected with brutal precision—another sharp crack sounded as she broke his nose again.

Before he could recover, she followed up with a swift kick aimed low, hitting him squarely in the groin.

The man doubled over, gasping in pain.

“You—” she hissed, stepping toward him again.

But a hand caught her arm.

Bobby.

His grip wasn’t rough, but it was solid. Focused.

“Not now,” he said quietly. “We need a medic, not a second body on the floor.”

His eyes, dark with fury but steady, turned toward a nearby security guard. “Get a doctor. Now. Don’t wait. She’s unconscious.”

The guard nodded and took off down the hall without hesitation.

Bobby then turned his attention to the supposed staffer. “What did you give her?”

The man coughed, squirming under the pressure of two more security guards closing in.

“I—I didn’t do anything,” he stammered.

“You handed her water and now she is passed out,” Bobby said, voice like ice. “I’ve never seen you at a single rehearsal or show this week.”

The staffer paled.

“What was in it?” Bobby demanded again, stepping closer.

There was a beat of silence—and then, under his breath, the man muttered, “Just… something to make her sleep. GHB. Nothing dangerous.”

The hallway around them seemed to recoil. Even the crowd that had begun to gather took a collective step back.

Mira saw red.

Zoey, still knelt by Rumi, let out a strangled noise. “You drugged her!? She’s a freaking minor, you—”

“Back up,” one of the guards barked at the onlookers. “Clear the hallway now!”

More security had arrived, quickly beginning to push back the press, staff, and curious eyes that had begun to encroach. Bobby signaled one of them to stay behind and guard the unconscious girl, keeping the doorway clear. The others stopped the staffer from running away, rough hands on his arms, blood still dripping down his chin.

Inside the room, the air felt heavier.

Zoey rested her forehead briefly against Rumi’s, voice low and trembling. “Please… please wake up. Just look at me once. I’ll never ask you for anything again, I swear.”

She shook her gently. Nothing.

Mira turned and stood beside them, fists clenched so tight her nails dug half-moons into her palms. She looked down at Rumi, still unmoving, still damp with spilled water, looking smaller than she ever had on a stage or in front of a camera.

A warrior felled by something she couldn’t fight.

“Fuck!” Mira hissed, slamming her fist into the dressing table beside her, causing a small stack of makeup cases to tumble with a clatter. “We shouldn’t have let her go alone! What the fuck were we thinking? We knew she was exhausted!”

Zoey nodded, tears brimming now. “We should’ve carried her on our backs if we had to. We should’ve—”

“Stop,” Bobby said sharply, stepping between them and Rumi like a wall. “This is not your fault.”

Both girls looked up, eyes wide and brimming with pain.

“This isn’t your fault! This was a fucking breach,” he growled. “This was a liaison failure, a safety protocol fucking breakdown. Somebody was supposed to be watching her. Someone was supposed to say enough is enough. But none of that happened. And where the hell is your manager?!”

Zoey glanced at Mira.

Mira crossed her arms and muttered darkly, “Rumi is our manager.”

Bobby blinked. His face didn’t change at first. Then it did. Slowly. Like something physically recoiling inside him.

“You’re joking,” he said, voice hollow. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“We begged for someone,” Zoey added quietly. “More than once.”

Before Bobby could respond, Celine’s heels clicked sharply against the hallway floor as she approached, blazer pristine and lips painted like armor.

“That’s enough,” she snapped. “This—ruckus—is completely out of line.”

Mira turned on her instantly, eyes flaring.

But Celine raised a hand.

“I know my girl. Rumi doesn’t need a damn ambulance. She’s overworked, that’s all. She just needs to sleep it off—”

“Bullshit,” Bobby barked, stepping forward, shielding the girls behind him with a protective stance. “You don’t know shit if you think she just needs a nap. She was drugged after working herself to near collapse. And you—you let a minor act as a full-time manager, with no backup? No oversight?”

Celine’s face twisted into a tight, dangerous smile. “And who the fuck are you to tell me anything?”

Zoey’s voice cut in like a blade.

“He’s our new manager.”

The hallway fell deathly still.

Celine’s expression froze mid-scoff. Bobby looked just as stunned, his lips parting—but no words came.

“I—” Bobby blinked. “Wait, what?”

“You heard her,” Mira said, stepping beside Zoey now, chin up, fury still simmering just under her skin. “You clearly don’t give a damn, and we’ve had enough. He cares. That’s more than you’ve done in months.”

Before Celine could respond, the medic team finally pushed through the hallway, kneeling beside Rumi’s unconscious form.

The medic crouched beside Rumi, two fingers to her neck and then making a few tests. He looked calm, professional, but his focus was razor-sharp.

“Pulse is faint, but steady,” he said. “Breathing’s regular. No signs of seizure, and no cardiac irregularities. She’s out cold, but stable.”

Zoey, still kneeling beside Rumi, let out a shaky breath. “She hasn’t slept properly in weeks. Barely eats. We told her to rest, but…”

“She’s been holding the whole show together by herself,” Mira added, jaw tight. “Even now, she was still trying to fix things. She was—she’s exhausted.”

The medic nodded, examining her pupils briefly.

“That tracks. She’s not only unconscious because of the drug — her body was already at the edge. Honestly, I think the exhaustion hit her harder than anything. She didn’t drink much of it, thankfully, to much water around her for that.”

Behind them, Bobby stood over the subdued staffer, who was now pinned by two security guards near the hallway wall. Blood still trickled from his nose.

Bobby didn’t flinch. “He said it was GHB.”

The medic didn’t look surprised. “Makes sense. Fast-acting sedative. Dangerous when mixed with alcohol or exhaustion — especially if the person’s already severely sleep-deprived.”

Mira’s hands clenched. “But she’ll wake up, right?”

“Yes,” the medic said. “There’s nothing critical right now. We could try to flush her system, but with how worn out she already is, it might do more harm than good. Best thing? Let her sleep it off in a safe place. Lots of fluids. Someone watching her. Constantly.”

“We’ll stay,” Zoey said instantly. “We’ll take turns.”

“Damn right,” Mira added, fierce.

The medic gave a small nod of approval. “You’re lucky she only got a little in her system. If she’d finished that bottle, you’d be on your way to the ICU.”

Celine, who had appeared in the doorway with her arms crossed, let out a quiet, smug sound. “I said she just needed sleep. Looks like I was right.”

The medic didn’t even glance at her. “No. You’re lucky. There’s a difference.”

Celine’s smile froze.

“She’s unconscious, not responding,” he added. “That isn’t normal. That’s not drama. That’s collapse. You don’t let someone like this just sleep it off alone, especially not with that background.”

Bobby turned to the guards. “Get him out of here,” he said, jerking his chin toward the staffer.

Then, quieter, to the medic: “Can she be moved?”

“With help, yeah. Just keep her head elevated and don’t jostle her.”

Zoey gently adjusted Rumi’s jacket and brushed her bangs back from her face, hand trembling.

Bobby crouched beside her.

“I’ll arrange a car,” he said, voice steady now. “And I’ll speak to the label tonight. We’re putting out a statement. Quiet but clear. And as for management—” He looked over at Celine. “We’ll be having a talk. Soon.”

Celine’s face stiffened, but she said nothing.

Zoey looked at him — really looked at him — and exhaled like she was letting go of something heavy.

“Thank you,” she said.

Bobby shook his head. “Don’t thank me yet. Let’s just get her home.”

Chapter Text

The SUV was too quiet. Just the low hum of tires and the faint hiss of air conditioning that couldn’t seem to cut through the cold crawling under Zoey’s skin.

Rumi lay unconscious in the middle seat, her head pillowed on Zoey’s lap, arms slack at her sides, her chest rising and falling in that eerie, too-slow rhythm.

Mira sat rigid beside them, hands fisted in her lap, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

Neither of them had spoken since they left the venue.

Not really.

Not since they’d realized—truly, fully realized—what had happened.

She was drugged.

Not fainting. Not overworked. Not sleep-deprived or burned out.

Drugged.

“Someone gave her GHB,” Zoey said suddenly, her voice paper-thin. “That’s like—like what they use in clubs. For—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of everything they didn’t say. Of what could’ve happened. What almost happened. What someone meant to happen.

Mira stared out the window, fists digging crescent moons into her thighs.

“She was just tired,” she said, voice flat and hollow. “We just left her alone for a few minutes... We just wanted to finish that damn interview.”

Zoey’s breath hitched. “She was already so exhausted. She couldn’t even finish her noodles. She said she was fine, that she just needed caffeine. We knew it was wrong. We knew she was not thinking straight.”

“She always says she’s fine,” Mira snapped, suddenly turning towards her. “Because she has to be! She’s the one holding everything together, and we just—” Her voice cracked. “We let her go off alone.”

Zoey flinched. “You think I don’t know that?!”

“I’m not blaming you,” Mira said, more softly now. “I’m blaming me. Us. All of us.”

She looked down at Rumi, her voice breaking.

“Fuck! She was drugged, Zo. Not just pushed too far. Not just exhausted. Someone looked at her and decided they could take her. How fucked up is that?!“

Zoey’s hand was trembling as she brushed Rumi’s hair back from her forehead. Her fingertips lingered there like they were trying to protect her through sheer contact.

“I keep thinking…” She swallowed hard. “If Bobby hadn’t been there—if that guy had gotten through the door just a second faster—”

“No.” Mira cut in sharply, voice shaking. “Don’t. Don’t go there.”

“I can’t stop,” Zoey whispered. “My brain keeps spinning it out. All the versions of tonight where we lose her.”

Mira’s head dropped into her hands. “It didn’t happen.”

“I know.”

“She trusts everyone. And she’s so fucking tired all the time. It was so easy—too easy—for someone to slip something in. Smile at her. Hand her a bottle. And she—she didn’t even think twice.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

The hum of the car seemed louder, like the city was muffled outside the windows, too far away to help.

“She’s normally so careful,” Zoey said eventually, her voice fragile. “All the time. About everything. Schedules. Contacts. Contracts. How did this happen?”

“Because she’s careful about us,” Mira replied. “Never herself.”

Zoey’s voice cracked. “What if she drank more of it?”

“She didn’t. The medic said she didn’t. The bottle was half full, most of it on the floor. She passed out before it hit her too hard.”

“But it hit her hard enough,” Zoey whispered.

Mira leaned back against the window, staring up at the SUV’s ceiling. Her eyes looked dry, but too wide.

Zoey curled over Rumi a little more protectively, like her body could somehow block out the memory.

“Do you think she knew?” Zoey whispered. “Before she blacked out? Do you think she felt it hit her?”

Mira didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly: “She reached the door.”

Zoey looked at her.

“She reached our door. She didn’t fall backstage. She fought it. However bad it was—she knew something was wrong, and she got away.”

Zoey’s throat clenched. Her eyes burned.

“She’s so damn strong,” she whispered. “And we keep expecting her to be.”

Mira didn’t move for a long moment. Then she reached across the seat and gently rested her hand on Zoey’s.

The gesture was small. But it anchored them both.

Up front, Bobby said nothing.

He didn’t try to comfort them. Didn’t offer empty reassurances. He just kept watching the road, jaw tight, eyes forward.

But when Mira glanced up, she saw his hand was clenched so tight on the armrest, his knuckles were white.

He was furious, too.

Good.

They didn’t need kind right now. They needed someone just as angry as they were.

“Where are we taking her?” Mira asked after a while, her voice low and rough.

“The hotel,” Bobby said. “Yours. You’re booked there through the week, right?”

Zoey nodded. “Suite 1107.”

“I’ll walk you up myself. No one gets near the room unless you say so.”

Mira nodded, quietly.

Zoey bent her head, her forehead resting against Rumi’s.

“We’re going to keep her safe,” she whispered. “No matter what. From now on—we don’t let her out of our sight.”

Mira echoed it like a vow. “Never again.”

And for the first time that night, Rumi let out a small sound. Barely a murmur, breath soft against Zoey’s cheek.

Zoey froze. “Ru?”

Her eyelids fluttered—but didn’t open.

Just a twitch. A whisper of her trying to surface.

Mira leaned in close. “Come on, Ru. We’re here. You’re safe. Just come back.”

Rumi didn’t stir again.

But the car kept moving.

And they didn’t let go of her.

Not for a second.

🦋

The moment Bobby opened the SUV door, Mira was already there—arms out, determined.

“I’ve got her,” she snapped before the driver could even move.

The man hesitated, hands half-raised. “I can help—”

“I said, I’ve got her.” Her voice cracked like a whip. Her expression dared him to try again.

He didn’t.

Zoey didn’t even blink. She was already scooping up Rumi’s bag, her expression tight and purposeful.

Bobby didn’t bother offering. He knew better. One look at Mira’s face and it was obvious—she was carrying Rumi, and no one else was going to touch her.

He just muttered a quiet curse and started scanning the sidewalk. “Lobby’s quiet. Let’s move.”

They slipped in fast—Mira cradling Rumi’s limp form like a lifeline, Zoey hovering close, flanking her other side. Bobby walked a half-step ahead, eyes sharp, posture squared, cutting a path through the hotel with practiced ease.

Still, he scowled.

“This place is too open,” he muttered as they reached the elevators. “No private entrance, barely any security in the front. Looks fancy, but it’s not tight enough.”

Neither of the girls answered. Mira was too focused on adjusting her grip as she bore Rumi’s weight—lighter than she should’ve been, so soft and still it made something ache behind Mira’s ribs. Zoey kept glancing over her shoulder like she expected the world to reach in and snatch Rumi away again.

By the time the elevator dinged on the 11th floor, all three of them were fraying at the seams.

Room 1107 was unlocked with shaking hands. They pushed inside—and the chaos hit immediately.

The room looked like it had been occupied by exactly what it was: three teenage girls left to manage themselves.

It wasn’t dirty, but it was the kind of disorganized only survival could explain. Trunks lay open like exploded suitcases, spilling clothes and makeup and charging cables in tangled drifts. A curling iron balanced precariously on the corner of a table. Two pairs of high heels sat abandoned next to a floor-length mirror that had fingerprints all over it. A half-eaten cup of ramen perched next to someone’s sheet music. And the bed—

“One bed?” Bobby muttered, brow furrowing.

Zoey answered without looking at him. “It was cheaper. And we liked it better.”

He didn’t argue. Not now. Didn’t matter.

What mattered was how Mira walked straight to the bed and laid Rumi down in the center like she was something sacred. Her touch had shifted from battle-ready to painfully gentle. She arranged Rumi’s limbs carefully—one arm folded across her stomach, one hand loose at her side, hair brushed back from her forehead.

Zoey was there the moment she stepped back, already tugging up the blankets, already pressing the back of her hand to Rumi’s cheek like she needed to confirm—yes, still warm. Yes, still breathing.

Mira didn’t move from her side of the bed. Just sat down next to Rumi and stared, like she was waiting for her to vanish again.

Bobby stood in the doorway a moment longer, watching. Assessing. And then, quietly: “I’m gonna get you food. Water. Whatever you need to camp out here tonight.”

Zoey glanced up. “What about the—her laptop? Her phone?”

“At the event?” he asked. When Zoey nodded, he gave a single, decisive nod. “I’ll go get them. I’ll deal with the venue and the security report. Make sure the statement is right. I’ll call the label, too.”

Mira looked up at that, her eyes sharp. “You’ll talk to them?”

“I won’t promise them anything. I’ll report what happened, and I’ll handle the fallout. You don’t need to deal with their bullshit tonight.”

“Are you… really our manager now?” Zoey asked cautiously. “Or—are you just helping? We didn’t even ask you…”

Bobby shook his head. “I’m helping.”

He looked at Rumi again—at the girl unconscious in the middle of a messy hotel bed, still in her stage outfit, terrible unresponsive.

“I wouldn’t take the job unless she could vote,” he said. “You don’t know me yet. She doesn’t know me. I wouldn’t feel right stepping in without that.”

Mira’s mouth opened. Bobby held up a hand.

“That doesn’t mean I won’t fight for you,” he added. “I will. Right now. Loudly, if I have to. But if you want me as your manager long-term? I want you all to interview me first. Ask whatever you want. Then decide.”

There was a pause.

Zoey nodded slowly. “Fair.”

Mira gave a quiet grunt that might’ve been agreement—or exhaustion.

Bobby stepped back toward the door. “I’ll knock once when I’m back. Don’t open for anyone else.”

“Got it,” Zoey said.

He turned, but paused halfway through the doorway. “Also—don’t let her sleep too long without water. The medic said she’ll be foggy when she wakes. Confused. Probably scared. Probably dizzy.“

Mira glanced at the girl beside her. Her voice was soft but fierce: “We’ll be here.”

Bobby didn’t say anything more.

He just left quietly, closing the door behind him.

🦋

Bobby sat in the backseat, elbow braced on the door, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

The city outside blurred past. His driver kept glancing in the rearview mirror, but wisely said nothing. Bobby was scrolling through trending tags with surgical speed.

#Huntrix was blowing up.
And not in the good way.

Top of the feed was a blurry freeze-frame: Mira’s fist colliding with a staffer’s face. The video played on loop—five seconds, no context. Just violence and a snarky caption:
“Huntrix goes rogue? Mira assaults crew backstage at Idol Awards.”

He cursed under his breath and kept scrolling. No photos of Rumi collapsed—thank god for small mercies—but Mira was already being painted as unstable, violent. Dangerous. No one cared why she did it.

Not yet.

The SUV slid to a stop behind the loading zone. Bobby was out before the driver even killed the engine. Security barely slowed him—he had clearance, and a stormy expression that dared anyone to challenge him.

Inside, the backstage dressing room was dim, half-forgotten. He found Rumi’s laptop still open on the table, her phone abandoned nearby, buzzing faintly under a scarf.

He scooped them up and checked the hallway. Empty.

Then he went back into the SUV and opened Rumi‘s phone.

The phone buzzed once—notifications pouring in.

Bobby glanced at it. Mira’s name on a group chat, something from Zoey. Dozens of mentions. Hundreds of new followers.

He didn’t have time to sort through the digital avalanche. He needed to act before public opinion crystallized into a fixed narrative.

He opened the contacts, scrolled until he found the label’s internal number—then tapped to call.

A sharp female voice answered. “Sunlight artists liaison. Who is this?”

“This is Bobby,” he said quickly, firmly. “I’m using Rumi’s phone. She’s unconscious. There’s been an incident at the Idol Awards. I need an emergency meeting with legal, PR, and any executive in charge of Huntrix’s management. Right now.”

A pause.

“…Sir, I’m not sure—”

“Connect me to someone who can authorize media action immediately. A statement needs to go out in the next half hour or you’re going to have a PR disaster worse than a brawl. I’ve already drafted the release. Just give me the right contacts.”

The line clicked. Then came voices—first a cautious legal rep, then PR, then finally Celine, cold and clipped.

“Who the hell are you?” she said. “Why are you calling from Rumi’s phone?”

“I’m Bobby. Tenporary crisis manager. Former agent. I was backstage when Rumi collapsed. She was drugged by a staffer—intentionally. Mira saw the aftermath and retaliated. That’s the video that’s trending.”

“You’re not part of the team,” Celine snapped. “You can’t just insert yourself—”

“Except I did,” Bobby cut in. “Because no one else did. While there manager was God knows where, I got them out. I got them safe. And I wrote the statement your team should’ve had ready ten minutes ago.”

He tapped out a quick message, attaching the press release to the email contacts PR had just sent him.

“You’ll find the facts, the phrasing, and no liability traps. Run it now.”

“I still don’t know why we should be listening to you,” Celine muttered.

“Because unlike you, I showed up,” Bobby snapped. “Because I saw a seventeen-year-old girl go down and no security move. Because Mira’s being crucified online for protecting someone when none of the adults did. And because the public already has a version of the story—and none of you have a plan.”

A longer silence followed. Then the legal rep asked cautiously: “What exactly is your involvement now?”

“I’m stepping in as interim manager. Temporarily. Until the girls can make their own decision. I told them I’d only stay if they wanted me. But they need someone now—someone competent.”

“Rumi can’t approve that,” Celine said. “And they’re not children. They’re old enough to know better.”

“Legally?” Bobby said, voice sharp. “No, they’re not. You’re their manager and their appointed guardian. They are minors. They’re your legal responsibility. And you left a seventeen-year-old to carry this group, unprotected, into one of the biggest events of the year. And now one of them’s unconscious and the other’s being smeared in the press.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“I know negligence when I see it. And you’re sitting in the middle of it.”

Celine fell quiet. Fuming, maybe. But no longer interrupting.

The head of PR spoke next, quieter: “We’re reviewing the statement now. It’s solid. We’ll prep a release. Legal is approving. Bobby, we’ll name you as a crisis contact only—for now.”

“That’s all I need,” he said. “Just make sure the girls don’t have to fight the press while recovering from your failure.”

As the call ended, Bobby stared out the window. Lights from the hotel came into view again.

His phone pinged—a confirmation.

Statement released.
Headline: “Huntr/x Member Defends Bandmate from Harm at Idol Awards — Label Investigating Security Breach.”

It was clean. Controlled. Truthful.

Now he just had to keep the girls breathing until the rest of the world caught up.

🦋

The door clicked shut behind Bobby, leaving the hotel room in heavy stillness. For a moment, neither Mira nor Zoey moved.

Rumi lay on the bed, limp under the blanket Zoey had pulled up over her earlier, her body impossibly still. She looked like she was sleeping — like she was just resting after a long show, her makeup still flawless, her chest rising and falling in slow, steady intervals. But it wasn’t sleep. Not really.

Zoey stood at the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around herself, eyes glassy.

“This… she can’t be comfortable,” she whispered.

Mira didn’t respond. She stood beside Rumi, unmoving, gaze fixed on her as if willing her to wake up and tell them it was fine. That she just needed a nap. That they were overreacting. But the longer she stared, the clearer it was — this was not just exhaustion. Not a faint. Not anything that should be happening.

“We can’t leave her like this,” Zoey said. “She hates sleeping in show clothes and in makeup.”

“She doesn’t care about the makeup being removed,” Mira murmured. “She lets us do that all the time.”

“Yeah, but…” Zoey hesitated. “Her clothes…”

Mira’s mouth tightened. They both knew.

Rumi had always been weird about changing. She never made a big deal of it, just… quietly excused herself. Bathroom, closet, other room — she never changed where people could see her. They’d just figured she was shy, maybe had some body image stuff or the scars from her fights with demons. Nothing to dramatic.

Now, though, standing over her unmoving body, the weight of that quiet boundary hit with a sickening clarity.

Mira nodded silently and moved to the trunk at the foot of the bed. She pulled out a pair of Rumi’s soft sweatpants, thick socks, and a well-worn hoodie. Zoey fetched the micellar water and cotton pads and began carefully wiping the stage makeup from her face — glitter, foundation, eyeliner, lipstick — it all came off in gentle strokes. Rumi didn’t flinch. Not once.

Zoey kept wiping, her hand trembling now. “She always makes jokes when I do this. Calls me ‘face mom,’ or asks me if she missed a spot.”

“I know,” Mira said quietly, crouching by the bed and slipping off Rumi’s shoes.

“She’s never quiet.”

They worked together, as carefully and gently as they could. Mira peeled off the jacket. Her shirt underneath had half sleeves and seemed soft enough, so they left it. But the jeans had to go — they were tight, stiff, meant for a stage, not for sleeping in.

When Zoey reached for the waistband, she hesitated. Her breath caught.

“I… I can’t,” she said. “This feels wrong.”

Mira looked at her. “We don’t have a choice.”

Zoey swallowed, tears already slipping down her cheeks. “She wouldn’t want us to. She’s never let anyone—”

“We‘re not hurting her,” Mira said softly. “We’re just making sure she’s comfortable.”

“I know, but… what if it had been someone else?”

Her voice cracked hard on the word someone. She gently tugged the waistband of Rumi’s jeans, whispering another “Sorry” even though Rumi didn’t react. Not a twitch. Not a stir.

“She’s not even flinching,” Zoey choked out. “I’m undressing her, and she doesn’t even—” Her voice broke completely, and she buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. “It could’ve been anyone, Mira. And she wouldn’t have had a chance to stop them.”

Mira sat down on the bed, blinking back her own burn of tears. “I know.”

Zoey cried quietly, one hand still resting on Rumi’s leg, like grounding herself to the moment. Eventually, Mira gently nudged her aside to finish pulling the jeans off and the sweatpants on, adjusting the blanket back over Rumi with careful fingers. She tucked the hoodie beside her just in case, though Rumi hadn’t moved or reacted to anything so far.

Zoey lay down beside her, still weeping softly, and slipped her hand into Rumi’s with aching tenderness. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Please wake up soon.”

She curled in close, needing the contact. Mira watched her eyes flutter shut, exhaustion finally overtaking the adrenaline. A few more seconds, and she was asleep — clinging to Rumi’s hand like a lifeline.

Mira didn’t lie down. She just sat there, phone in hand, scanning headlines with a growing knot in her chest. Her own name was already trending.

Staff Attacked by Idol.

Idol Group Huntrix Involved in Incident.

One clip. One frame of Mira’s face twisted in rage, fist connecting with the staffer’s nose. That’s all they had — no context. No explanation.

She swallowed hard.

She scrolled past the worst of it—until a new notification appeared.

Official Statement Released by Huntrix Label — Incident at Idol Awards

Mira opened it.

Her brows lifted slightly.

It was solid. Clear. The language sharp but neutral. Rumi was identified as habing been attacked. Mira was credited with intervening in defense. The label promised an internal investigation. No blame cast on the girls. No excuses either.

Bobby had moved fast.

Mira sat back against the headboard and looked over at Rumi — still too still.

She set her phone down.

“Okay,” she whispered. “That’s something.”

And for a moment, there was only the soft hum of the air conditioning, Zoey’s breathing, and the quiet tick of time they’d just bought.

🦋

It was still dark when Rumi stirred.

A faint haze of light filtered in at the edges of the curtains, soft and grey-blue, signaling the earliest hours of morning. The air was cool, quiet, still.

Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy like wet cloth. Everything felt wrong. Her body didn’t move right. Her arms, her legs — they weren’t numb exactly, but they lagged behind her intent like a delayed signal. Her heartbeat jumped, quick and fluttering, and her breath hitched in her chest.

Why couldn’t she sit up?

Why didn’t her limbs listen?

A soft sound escaped her throat — not a cry, not a word, just a shallow exhale of panic. She tried to lift her head and failed. Her fingers twitched against the blanket, barely.

She couldn’t remember falling asleep.

She couldn’t remember—
The room was spinning just from trying to think. Her eyes darted around in small, sluggish movements, catching only glimpses — pillow, ceiling, dark walls, a curtain edge, a shadow. She didn’t know where she was. Or why she felt like her body wasn’t hers.

Then warmth.

One arm, then two. Carefully curling around her.

“It’s okay,” Zoey whispered, voice already cracking. “You’re safe. You’re okay, Rumi.”

“Shhh, we’ve got you,” came Mira’s voice, low and steady. “Just breathe.”

Rumi’s chest was tightening. Her mouth opened — no words came. Her lips moved, but there was no strength behind the sound. No focus. She tried to roll onto her side, to push herself up, to move, anything — and when her body failed again, her eyes filled with tears, quick and hot.

She wasn’t okay. She was trapped in herself. Something was wrong. She knew it. She just couldn’t make her mouth or limbs say it.

Zoey tucked in closer, rubbing her hand gently over Rumi’s arm. “You’re not alone. You’re in our room. Just rest, okay? We’ve been right here the whole time.”

“You don’t have to do anything right now,” Mira said from her other side, brushing Rumi’s damp hair away from her forehead. “We’re safe. You’re safe.”

They didn’t ask her questions. They didn’t tell her to remember. They just anchored her.

Rumi blinked slowly, panic ebbing inch by inch as the two girls held her there — soft voices, gentle hands. A tether.

Safe.

Her muscles loosened slightly. Not fully. She still felt awful — dizzy, weak, like her whole body was packed in cotton and confusion. Her throat burned. Her stomach turned. But she let herself stop trying to fight it.

She couldn’t go far. But she didn’t have to.

Zoey squeezed her hand, careful and light. “Sleep, Rum. We’re not going anywhere.”

And with that, Rumi let herself sink back into the pillow. This time not from whatever had taken her down before — but willingly. Surrounded. Held.

And finally, asleep.

Chapter Text

Morning crept in slow and soft. The hotel room was dim, the curtains still drawn, the air thick with the kind of silence that follows a night too heavy for sleep. Zoey stirred first to the sound of a gentle knock, and Mira was already halfway to the door by the time it came again — short, firm, unmistakably Bobby.

He came in quietly, holding a tray with coffee, juice, and warm breakfast wraps in brown paper. There were dark circles under his eyes, but he looked put-together in that sharply capable way again. He’d changed clothes. Shaved. He was working.

“How’s she doing?” he asked without preamble, gaze going immediately to the bed where Rumi lay, still pale and too still.

“She woke up once,” Zoey said, voice hushed. “Middle of the night. She couldn’t really move. Couldn’t talk. She panicked, I think… we just held her until she passed out again.”

Mira nodded, arms folded tightly across her chest. “She didn’t say anything. I don’t even think she could.”

Bobby let out a low breath and set the tray on the nearest table. “Yeah,” he said. “That… tracks.”

He rubbed the back of his neck for a second, clearly bracing himself before continuing. “I spoke with a doctor this morning — someone who specializes in this kind of thing. She said that kind of partial waking is normal. The disorientation, the paralysis, the memory gaps. It’s your body trying to reboot from a total override.”

“Will she even remember?” Mira asked, barely above a whisper.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Bobby said honestly. “Don’t be surprised if she doesn’t remember waking at all. What matters is that you kept her calm. You did everything right.”

Zoey sat back down on the edge of the bed, smoothing Rumi’s blanket. “She’s going to be wrecked when she does remember. Even if she doesn’t remember everything.”

“I know,” Bobby said, quieter now. “That’s why I already made arrangements. I reached out to a trauma specialist I trust — for all three of you. Someone good. She’s ready to talk, if and when you are. No pressure, but…” He looked at them directly. “Last night didn’t just hurt Rumi. You both went through something awful too.”

There was a long pause. Neither Mira nor Zoey argued.

Bobby stepped closer, not too close, careful not to crowd the girls. “When Rumi’s a bit more stable, I want to move you all. I’ve got a safer hotel ready to go. Tighter security, better layout. You’ll have privacy and breathing room.”

Mira raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Already?”

“I don’t waste time,” Bobby said. “This place isn’t good enough. Never was.”

He hesitated, then added, quieter, “This should’ve happened a long time ago. I’m sorry no one made sure of that before.”

Zoey bit her lip. “It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours either,” Bobby said firmly. “You’ve been doing the job of adults since you were kids. That ends now.”

He pulled out his phone, thumbed something open, then turned the screen toward them — a sleek gallery of townhouses and apartments, spacious and secure.

“Once Rumi’s awake and able, we’re house hunting. I’ve already started the legwork. I want you somewhere safe and stable — somewhere that feels like a home, not a stopgap between nightmares.”

Zoey blinked at the photos. Mira didn’t say anything for a moment.

“You’re serious,” she said finally.

“Completely.”

Zoey’s voice was small but hopeful. “And you’ll stay?”

Bobby looked at both of them, expression soft but resolute. “As long as you want me. And until Rumi can speak for herself — I’ll make damn sure no one gets near you who shouldn’t.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time — it was full. Tired, but steadier. For the first time in too long, they weren’t alone.

And Rumi slept on, unaware, but not unguarded. Not anymore.

Rumi surfaced slowly, as if dragging herself up through thick, black tar. Her head was the first thing she noticed—splitting, pounding, as if something had cracked open inside her skull and died there. The ache wasn’t sharp; it was dull and rotting, a throbbing rot that curled behind her eyes and reached down her spine.

She barely had the strength to whisper, “Something crawled in my head… and died there.”

Mira heard it.

She’d been awake, or half-awake, perched uncomfortably against the headboard, her eyes on Rumi even in the dim orange wash of streetlight slipping through the curtains. Her phone had long gone dark in her hand, but she hadn’t let herself sleep. Not fully. Not while Rumi was still so still.

At first, she thought she imagined it—the whisper, soft as air—but then she saw the movement. Rumi’s fingers twitching, dragging toward her face. Her expression contorted, barely lit, eyes cracked open like a broken doll’s.

“Rumi?” Mira breathed, already shifting upright, one foot slipping to the floor.

Inside her head, Rumi panicked. Her limbs didn’t feel right. Her arms felt ten times heavier than they should, her chest sluggish, lungs tight. She tried to sit up, but the world spun violently before her eyes, as though the room had tilted and her body hadn’t caught up. Panic started to build—loud, clawing—and her skin felt wrong, too hot and too cold at once.

She needed to move. She needed out.

Suddenly, she was lurching forward, the headache sharp now, stabbing behind her eyes like knives. Her legs nearly gave out beneath her as she stumbled from the bed. Her stomach turned violently, threatening something worse. She didn’t know where she was going, only that her body was moving without permission.

Mira startled, reacting fast. “Rumi!”

But the bathroom door slammed shut before she could reach her.

And then came the sound—retching, broken, awful. The unmistakable echo of someone being violently sick.

Mira froze. Her hand hovered just an inch from the doorframe, her stomach twisting with helplessness. Behind her, she heard Zoey stir, a soft, confused groan followed by her sitting upright.

“Mira…?”

“She’s awake,” Mira said, voice low, taut. “She ran to the bathroom. She’s—sick.”

Inside, Rumi gripped the toilet like a lifeline. She couldn’t think. Her body moved on instinct—vomiting, gasping, shivering. Everything hurt. Her mouth tasted bitter and wrong, and the floor beneath her felt like it might swallow her whole. Her legs folded underneath her, her cheek briefly resting against the cool tile.

This wasn’t a hangover. It was worse than that—deeper. Her body still didn’t respond right. Everything was delayed, disconnected, off.

She hated it. She hated how weak she felt. How lost.

Zoey’s voice came from the other side of the room, fragile but trying for lightness. “Well… on the plus side… she’s moving. That’s new.”

Mira didn’t smile.

She pressed her knuckles against the door and called softly, “Rumi? It’s me. You okay?”

There was a pause. Then Rumi’s broken voice, muffled and small: “No.”

And god, Mira’s heart cracked wide open.

“That’s okay,” she said gently. “You don’t have to be okay right now. You’re safe. We’re safe. You can take your time.”

Inside, Rumi clung to that voice—Mira’s voice—like a thread to anchor her in place. Safe. That word alone nearly made her cry.

She didn’t feel safe. She didn’t feel like herself. But the fact that Mira and Zoey were here, that they hadn’t left—that mattered.

Rumi flushed the toilet with a trembling hand, the motion automatic and detached, like everything else about her body. She reached for the tap—already running—and cupped cold water into her mouth, rinsing away the acid and bile. When she finally looked up, her reflection stared back in fractured pieces.

Pale. Sweaty. Her lips dry and cracked. Eyes bloodshot and wide with a dawning, hazy confusion.

A stranger.

Her gaze dropped lower—and froze.

Her jacket was gone. So were her stage pants. In their place: loose sweatpants. She didn’t remember changing. She didn’t remember anything after stepping offstage.

Her hands hovered, uncertain, tugging lightly at the hem of her shirt—still the half-sleeved one from before. That, at least, was familiar. But the rest…

She swallowed hard, heart lurching. Her head pulsed with pressure, like her skull might split. Thoughts scattered. A sudden, tight hiccup broke from her throat—then another, and another, almost too fast to breathe between them. She wasn’t even sure what the emotion was. Panic? Shame? Fear? Humiliation? They blurred together until it didn’t matter.

The door creaked.

“Rumi?” Mira’s voice came quiet, steady through the crack. “Do you… do you need help?”

“No,” Rumi rasped, too fast, too sharp. She squeezed her eyes shut, hiccuping again, holding herself up by gripping the edge of the sink. “I’m fine. Just—just need a second.”

The lie tasted bitter, but Mira didn’t push.

Rumi took a breath. Then another. Then she screamed—wordless, ragged, eyes still shut, sound muffled behind clenched teeth and tight lungs. Her knees buckled slightly, and the floor dipped under her. Her legs no longer felt like hers. The bathroom spun. Her body was unraveling by the second.

She wouldn’t make it back on her own. Not without falling. Not without breaking further.

“Mira?” she whispered. Her voice was wrecked and small. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“Does the offer still stand?”

There was no hesitation. The door swung fully open, and Mira stepped in with gentle hands, careful movements, her presence calm even in the chaos.

“Yeah,” she said simply.

She didn’t ask permission. She just bent and lifted Rumi into her arms, bridal style—solid and warm and without a hint of judgment. Rumi sagged against her, silent but grateful, her head resting against Mira’s shoulder. Her eyes burned but didn’t cry.

“I brought a new trash can,” Mira added as she carried her back toward the bed. “Thought it might be better… if you didn’t run again.”

The humor was gentle, meant to soften the edges. Rumi didn’t respond, but she didn’t need to. Her fingers clutched weakly at Mira’s sleeve, grounding herself in the only thing that felt real.

And Mira didn’t let go.

🦋

Rumi stirred beneath the blankets, her body heavy with a strange, unfamiliar weight. Her head pounded dully—more like a deep pressure than sharp pain now—but it was still relentless, like someone pressing on the inside of her skull with cold fingers. Her mouth felt awful. Thick, dry, stale. Like she’d slept with cotton between her teeth.

Light streamed in through the window, stabbing through her eyelids.

Everything felt off.

She opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the brightness, only to find something she couldn’t quite name sitting wrong in her chest. Her brain felt fogged, like she’d lost a day or two between blinks. There were soft voices coming from across the room—Zoey, Mira, and… someone else?

Someone she didn’t know.

She blinked again. A man. Sitting on the couch. Laughing softly at something Zoey said, holding a phone—her phone?

Rumi’s stomach tightened. There was no jolt of fear, no rush of instinct like fight or flight. Just a cold, sinking wrong. Something about the entire moment felt misaligned. Like she’d walked into the wrong version of her life.

She sat up too fast, immediately regretting it. Her head spun. The nausea returned in a slow, creeping wave.

“I—what…?” Her voice cracked. “What happened?”

Three pairs of eyes turned toward her instantly. Zoey was the first to move, rising gently and hurrying to her side. Her expression was warm, careful—relieved, but worried.

“Hey,” Zoey said, crouching next to the bed. “You’re awake. That’s good.”

“I don’t—” Rumi’s gaze flicked between Zoey, Mira, and the man. “I don’t remember. After… the awards. Everything’s fuzzy. What’s going on?”

Zoey placed a calming hand on her knee. “I promise we’ll talk. All of it. But I think you should shower first. Get the gross off. You’ll feel more like yourself once you’ve done that.”

Rumi hesitated, then nodded slowly. She did feel gross. Her skin was too warm in some places, clammy in others. Her shirt clung weirdly to her sides, and her mouth tasted like a twelve-hour nap in a subway station. Her body felt lived-in—just not by her.

Something else tugged at her, like a thread she couldn’t trace. She shifted under the blanket and stilled.

She was dressed differently.

Her clothes weren’t what she remembered wearing to the awards. They weren’t hers—or at least not what she’d put on. She reached slowly for the edge of the fabric. Sweatpants. Clean, soft, but not hers. Not what she’d chosen. She didn’t remember changing. Didn’t remember coming back to the hotel. Didn’t remember anything, really.

She swallowed hard.

Something big had happened. She could feel it in the quiet around her.

Zoey saw the questions forming again and gently reached for her suitcase. “Here,” she said softly, pulling out a fresh outfit—something simple, soft, breathable. “Let’s start with this. Shower. Brush your teeth. Then we’ll talk, okay?”

Rumi nodded again, slow and uncertain. Her eyes flicked once more toward the couch, toward the man—Bobby, she heard Mira say quietly.

She didn’t know him.

But Zoey and Mira looked calm. They weren’t scared. If anything, they seemed tired. Grounded. Like they’d been up for a while and were simply… waiting for her to catch up.

Rumi stood, a little shaky, and made her way to the bathroom. She took the clothes Zoey handed her and walked carefully, casting a final glance back toward the room as she shut the door behind her.

She still didn’t feel safe in her body, not yet.

But at least she was starting to feel real again.

One step at a time.

She exhaled slowly.

The sight of her reflection startled her. Pale. Drawn. A sheen of sweat still clung to her forehead. Her hair was matted in places, her lips chapped. But it was her.

Barely.

She peeled off the clothes someone else had put on her, pausing when she got to her shirt. It hadn’t been touched. That helped. It really did.

She stepped under the shower spray and just stood there for a long moment, letting the hot water hit her face, her neck, her shoulders. Slowly, bit by bit, the ache behind her eyes began to dull. The grime washed away. Her limbs still felt unsteady, but she was beginning to feel more inhabited. Present.

She washed and rinsed and even did her hair, going through each step like a routine she hadn’t realized she needed. Then she brushed her teeth for five whole minutes, scrubbing at her tongue, rinsing, then mouthwash. Twice. Three times. Until she didn’t taste panic anymore.

She dressed in the clean clothes Zoey had picked out and looked at herself in the mirror again. Still tired. Still sore. But steadier.

Her head still throbbed faintly, but her thoughts weren’t spinning so hard anymore.

Still—she dreaded what was coming. The explanations. The missing hours. The stranger outside.

But she was clean.

She was standing.

And she was ready to ask.

Almost.

She opened the door.

🦋

Rumi stepped out of the bathroom in clean clothes, hair damp from the shower and her skin pink from the heat. She looked better—less ghost, more girl—but there was a distance in her eyes. A rawness around the edges.

She walked slowly, barefoot, still wrung out from sleep and silence, and dropped into the corner of the couch like her body wasn’t fully under her command. Her eyes flicked around the room once before she settled on the man seated between Zoey and Mira.

Rumi stared at him.

Then down at her phone, which he had just handed back to her.

Then back at him.

“…Who are you?” she asked, cautious but not hostile. More confused than anything. She held the phone against her chest like a shield.

He sat up a little straighter. “I’m Bobby. I’m a manager—used to work with a boyband before they disbanded. I’m here on emergency assignment.”

Rumi blinked slowly.

Zoey leaned into her side, nudging gently. “He helped us. After the… awards. We trust him.”

Rumi nodded once, dumbfounded, still clutching her phone.

“What… happened?”

Mira and Zoey shared a look. Zoey opened her mouth, but Mira gently shook her head. Bobby sat forward instead, voice calm and steady.

“You collapsed after going backstage,” he said. “You were unconscious. Drugged.”

Rumi’s eyes widened slightly, but not in alarm. Just… processing.

“And… now it’s two days later?”

“You’ve been out since then,” Mira said. Her voice was tight. Controlled. But underneath, something trembled.

Rumi looked down at her phone, her fingers flicking through the notifications like a machine. Then she froze. The date.

Two days.

Two full days.

Her heart jumped. “Wait. I’ve been out for two days? I can’t—no, I need to check the mail, the planning doc, the merch drop, I had to approve the wardrobe list—”

Bobby held up a hand. “I’ve already handled it. I contacted the label. Everything’s paused or delegated until you’re back on your feet. I’m interim manager until you can decide if you want to keep me.”

“You… what?”

He gave a small, reassuring nod. “You don’t need to worry about any of it right now.”

“Oh,” Rumi said. And then, quieter: “Okay.”

Zoey shifted again. “Rumi. You were drugged.”

Rumi blinked. Then blinked again. “Okay. So it knocked me out?”

“It—yeah. It did,” Zoey said softly.

“Okay,” Rumi repeated. Her tone was eerily level. “That explains why I feel like I got hit by a truck. And why I’ve been asleep so long. So… the schedule will start again tomorrow?”

The air in the room changed. It went cold.

Mira stood.

“What the hell, Rumi?” Her voice cracked like glass. “Do you not get how serious this is?”

Rumi looked up, startled. She met Mira’s eyes and shrank slightly under the weight of her glare.

“I… I don’t…?”

And she really didn’t. Her brows furrowed, her mouth parted like maybe a better answer would float up from somewhere if she just waited long enough. But there was nothing behind it but a blank, helpless confusion.

Zoey let out a sound—something between a laugh and a sob—and rubbed her face.

“Okay. Rumi. Serious question. Do you know about… bees and flowers?”

Rumi stared at her, still utterly lost. “What… like, gardening?”

Something in Bobby’s face shifted. His eyes narrowed slightly—not in suspicion, but in slow, dawning realization. Mira sat back down like her legs stopped working.

Rumi looked between them, more anxious now. “What? What did I say?”

Zoey swallowed hard, her voice suddenly tender. “Rumi. You were drugged. You passed out. You couldn’t move. Someone could have—someone might have—”

“But nothing happened, right?” Rumi said, genuinely puzzled. “I didn’t get in trouble. It’s not like I took anything on purpose. It’s not a scandal or anything?”

Mira flinched. Zoey reached for her hand.

And Bobby just watched, realizing with an almost physical ache: No one ever taught her. Not about safety. Not about consent. Not about danger. Not about any of it.

She didn’t know.

Rumi shifted uncomfortably on the couch, trying to understand why everyone suddenly looked like they might cry.

“I just thought something bad had happened,” she mumbled.

“It did,” Mira said quietly.

And for a long moment, no one spoke.

Because they finally understood.

Rumi didn’t know how to protect herself—not because she was careless. Not because she was cold.

But because no one ever showed her how.

🦋

Rumi hadn’t moved from her spot on the couch. Her knees were drawn up, a cup of water resting in her hands, untouched. Her eyes drifted across the room like she was trying to catch up on a conversation she wasn’t part of. She still hadn’t asked any real questions. Just “okay,” “okay,” again and again. Like someone trying to act normal when everything had already slipped sideways.

Across the room, Zoey and Mira stood with Bobby, voices hushed—but sharp.

“She didn’t know,” Zoey said, arms wrapped tight around herself. “Not just like… in denial. She literally didn’t know.”

Mira gave a grim nod. “She thought being drugged was just… being tired. Said she thought something more serious happened.”

“That’s not ignorance,” Zoey added. “That’s someone never being taught.”

Bobby blinked slowly, as if trying to reboot. “Wait,” he said. “You’re saying… no one told her? Not about consent? Safety? Anything?”

“Not even the basics,” Mira bit out. “Celine told us the usual—watch your drink, don’t be alone, never take anything from someone you don’t know. That was, what, first week? But Rumi wasn’t there and our guardians told us before.”

“She was homeschooled,” Zoey said. “So we just thought, y’know, Celine already said it.”

“She’s seventeen,” Bobby said, slowly, as if repeating it would make sense of it. “She’s been on sets. In hotels. Surrounded by adults.”

“Exactly,” Mira snapped. “And none of those adults told her what to look out for. What to fear. What to fight.”

There was a long, stunned silence.

Then Bobby muttered, “Jesus Christ,” and ran a hand through his hair. “This is criminal. Like—actual criminal neglect. Celine is supposed to protect her. She is her guardian.”

“She protected the image,” Zoey said bitterly. “Not the girl.”

“I’ve worked in some messed-up circles,” Bobby said, voice low, eyes locked on Rumi’s hunched figure. “But I have never seen this level of deliberate naivety forced onto a kid. She was kept in a bubble and handed over to an industry that eats people like her alive.”

His fists clenched at his sides. “She didn’t even know what could’ve happened.”

Mira’s jaw tightened. “She still doesn’t.”

Bobby inhaled sharply, steadying himself. “Alright. We’re getting her out of here. The new hotel suite’s ready—separate bedrooms, but big beds if you still want to share, quiet, safe, full lockdown security. The therapist I called is flying in today and will meet you there. There’s a private space already set aside for her.”

He looked to Zoey and Mira. “Can you help her get to the car?”

“You don’t even have to ask,” Mira said, already moving toward the couch.

“Of course we can,” Zoey said gently.

Bobby nodded once. His voice was quieter now. “Good. Because she doesn’t need a manager right now. She needs people who give a damn. And you two? You’re doing everything right.”

Together, they turned back to Rumi—still silent, still holding her water, lost somewhere between confusion and the creeping edge of fear.

She didn’t know what had happened to her.

But now, finally, someone did.

And they weren’t going to let it happen again.

🦋

The suite door clicked open, and Rumi’s first instinct wasn’t curiosity. It was survival.

The moment they stepped inside, she tightened her grip on Zoey’s arm. Her legs were trembling, every step from the car to the elevator to this moment feeling like she’d run a marathon underwater. The scent of clean fabric softener and faint hotel citrus didn’t help. It just reminded her how not-home this all still was.

“Couch,” she whispered, barely loud enough to be heard. “Can I… Just the couch.”

Mira and Zoey exchanged a glance—silent, instinctual—and steered her gently to the plush L-shaped sofa. The second she sank into it, Rumi exhaled with a soft, broken sound, her head lolling back against the cushions. Her legs gave up completely, and her arms folded across her stomach like she was trying to hold herself together.

“I’ll look around later,” she murmured, eyes already closing. “I just need… two seconds. I’ll—”

But she was out before she finished the sentence.

Mira carefully adjusted a throw pillow under her head. Zoey tucked the soft knit blanket over her and brushed some stray hair from Rumi’s damp forehead. She was still pale, her skin too clammy, her lips dry—but her breathing was even now. Deep.

“I don’t think she’s making it out of there anytime soon,” Zoey said softly.

Bobby stood back for a second, watching the way the girls hovered near her. “Let her rest,” he said, voice low. “She earned it.”

Then he nodded toward the rest of the suite. “Come on. Quick tour.”

Zoey hesitated. “We’re not leaving her alone.”

“You won’t be far,” Bobby said. “Just enough to see the layout.”

With one last glance at Rumi, they followed him.

The hotel suite was, in a word, insane. Sleek. Spacious. Private. A full kitchen with real appliances. A dining table. A wide balcony with a view of the skyline. And the bedrooms—three of them. Separate. Fully theirs.

“This one’s a little quieter,” Bobby said, opening the first door. “Windows face the inner courtyard. Might be good for sleep.”

Mira immediately nodded. “I’ll take this.”

Zoey peeked into the second room and gasped. “Is that—?”

“A bath that could fit three of you,” Bobby said, amused.

Zoey clutched the doorframe like she’d found the holy grail. “If you can get bath salts and that eucalyptus stuff that smells like a spa, I swear I’ll never complain again.”

“I’ll have it delivered,” Bobby promised. “Groceries too—Mira, text me a list.”

She gave him a curt nod. “Nothing pre-made. I’ll cook.”

“Perfect. Also—no one else comes up here. No hotel staff, no deliveries to the door. We’ve learned that lesson.”

Both girls nodded. No strangers. Not anymore.

“I’ll pick up the food myself and drop it here,” Bobby added. “You’ll see me before anyone else does.”

They returned to the living room where Rumi was still curled up, breathing slow. Mira quietly knelt beside the couch and pressed her knuckles lightly to her forehead—checking for fever out of habit. Zoey sat nearby on the carpet, legs crossed, just watching her sleep.

“She’ll be out for a while still,” Bobby said. “But the therapist’s on her way. You’ll meet her first, before anything. Private room, one floor down. She’s one of the good ones.”

Mira nodded again. “Thank you. For this.”

“Don’t thank me. Just…” He glanced at Rumi. “Help her understand when she wakes up.”

“We will,” Zoey said, voice quiet and sure.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

There was a polite knock on the door — three soft taps, firm but not urgent.

Zoey opened it, revealing a calm-looking woman in a tailored, soft gray outfit. She had short, loose curls tucked behind her ears and glasses that made her blue eyes seem even more attentive.

“Valerie Kinbott,” she said, offering a gentle smile. “I’m the therapist Bobby called. May I come in?”

Mira nodded and stepped back to let her enter. Rumi was curled up on the couch, blanket pulled up over her legs, a mug of tea cupped in her hands. She looked up curiously, not alarmed, just quietly trying to catch up with the new face in the room.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Valerie said, settling gently onto an armchair. “I’d love to start with just a group conversation, if that’s alright. Get a feel for how you’re doing.”

Zoey and Mira exchanged a glance. They both sat down on either side of Rumi, who stayed quiet but alert.

Zoey was the first to speak. “We’re… mostly okay, I guess? Just… kind of out of our depth. We’re worried about Rumi.”

“She doesn’t really seem to understand what happened,” Mira added, voice low. “And we’re not sure how to explain it without making it worse.”

Valerie nodded, listening without judgment.

“I am okay,” Rumi said softly, shrugging. “I mean, yeah, I’m tired. And a little annoyed I missed two days. But I don’t feel… broken or anything. We should probably just get back on schedule.”

Zoey made a quiet sound — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “See what I mean?”

Valerie smiled gently. “Rumi, that’s fair. Missing time can be disorienting. But may I ask — do you know why your friends are so worried?”

“I… I guess?” Rumi said, frowning. “They said I was drugged. That’s bad. But it’s not like anything happened, right? I just fell asleep. So… I don’t really get the big deal.”

Valerie’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a softness to her tone as she asked, “Can I ask — did anyone ever talk to you about situations like this? About boundaries, and safety, and… consent?”

Rumi looked confused for a moment, then nodded a little. “Celine said never to take drugs. So I didn’t. I mean… not on purpose.”

Valerie was quiet for a moment, then nodded, more to herself. “That helps me understand. And… just to be clear — do you know that what happened to you wasn’t your fault?”

Rumi blinked. “I guess? I didn’t do anything. So… yeah.”

Mira exhaled slowly, and Zoey muttered under her breath, “She’s so sheltered, Val. We don’t even know how to explain the danger without hurting her more.”

Rumi looked at them, puzzled, like she had missed something big and wasn’t sure how.

Valerie leaned in slightly. “Rumi, what they’re saying is really important. But here’s the good news: we’re not here to scare you. We’re here so you feel safe — and prepared.”

“I’m not scared,” Rumi said, unsure. “Just… confused, I guess.”

Valerie smiled. “That’s completely okay. Confusion is a starting place. It means your brain is already trying to make sense of something that doesn’t fit what you knew before. And that’s a good sign.”

That seemed to click with Rumi a little. She sat back slightly, processing.

Valerie continued gently, “I’d love to talk with each of you one-on-one later, just to give space for individual thoughts. But right now, I want you to know this isn’t about blame or fear — it’s about learning and healing. You’re already doing the hardest part by showing up and being honest.”

Zoey let out a small breath, her shoulders easing. “That… actually helps.”

Mira nodded in agreement, though her hand still hovered close to Rumi’s like she wasn’t ready to let go yet.

Rumi looked down at her tea, then up again. “So… I don’t have to have all the answers yet?”

“Not even close,” Valerie said, warm and reassuring. “That’s what we’re here for.”

And somehow, for the first time in days, the air felt a little lighter. Like the road ahead still might be long — but at least now they had a map.

And someone who could help them read it.

🦋

The therapy room — a quiet, softly lit part of the new hotel suite — was separated from the rest of the chaos. No distractions, just a neutral space meant for rest, reflection, and truth. Valerie Kinbott, with her soft gray curls, warm eyes, and a calming presence that didn’t ask for attention, sat with her notebook unopened beside her. She didn’t write. Not yet.

Across from her, Rumi curled into a corner of a wide armchair. She looked clean, comfortable enough, in soft clothes Zoey had picked out — but she sat too still. Her shoulders hunched slightly, fingers worrying at the hem of her sleeve. Alert but guarded.

Valerie smiled gently. “Thanks for sitting down with me, Rumi.”

“It’s okay,” Rumi said, almost automatically. “I don’t mind. I mean… if this is part of the schedule now, then I’ll do it.”

Valerie tilted her head slightly. “It’s not about a schedule. This is for you. Not something you owe anyone.”

Rumi blinked at her, unsure what to do with that.

Valerie continued, her tone light but honest. “Can I ask how you’re feeling today?”

Rumi shrugged. “Tired. My head still kinda hurts. I feel gross about missing two days. I should’ve done stuff, but… everyone says I shouldn’t worry about it.”

“Do you think you should worry?”

Rumi looked at her hands. “I don’t know. I guess… I don’t know what the right thing is anymore.”

“That’s fair,” Valerie said softly. “Sometimes the ‘right thing’ depends on who’s been telling you the rules.”

Rumi frowned. “Celine said I don’t get to decide that. Like, she said I’m not old enough to make certain choices yet. But also that I’m old enough to know better, and I should act like a professional. So… I do what she says. Or try.”

Valerie let that hang for a beat. “Can I ask… do you feel like your body belongs to you?”

Rumi stared at her, confused. “What?”

“Your body,” Valerie repeated, gently. “Do you feel like it’s yours? That you get to make choices about it?”

Rumi made a face like the question was silly — or worse, obvious. “No? I mean… not really. Celine says of course it’s mine, but it has to be used a certain way. For the brand. For the group. I’m trained to behave a certain way. To sit properly, smile properly, speak the right words. Not eat too much. Not be weird with fans. Everything has a reason.”

Valerie’s brows drew in slightly. “You said trained. Not raised.”

Rumi blinked again. “Isn’t it the same?”

Valerie didn’t answer immediately. She observed, gently. “When someone raises you, they give you a foundation — emotional, social, personal. But when someone trains you… that’s about performance. Repetition. Control. Like teaching a job, not nurturing a person.”

Rumi looked slightly off-guard by that.

“I thought that was normal,” she said after a long pause. “Celine said I should be grateful. She gave me everything.”

“And maybe she gave you something,” Valerie said carefully, “but she seems to have left a lot out, too. Like your right to say no. Or your right to understand danger, and boundaries, and safety — not just for the group, but for you.”

Rumi bit her lip. “…Is that what everyone’s so upset about?”

Valerie smiled gently. “They’re upset because they love you. Because someone tried to hurt you — without your permission. And you didn’t even know what to protect yourself from.”

There was a long silence. Rumi stared at the carpet between her feet.

“I thought someone would have to… I don’t know. Want me that way first,” she said awkwardly. “Which… they wouldn’t.”

Valerie’s heart twisted, but her face remained calm. “Rumi, it’s not about how someone sees you. It’s about them taking something they don’t have the right to. Your worth isn’t up for debate. No one has the right to your body unless you say yes. Not because you were trained to smile. Not because you were told to be polite. Only if you want it.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything like that,” Rumi murmured, confused and a little sad. “Is that weird?”

“It’s not weird at all,” Valerie said kindly. “It just means you haven’t had the space or safety to figure that out yet. And now you’re beginning to. That’s progress.”

Another pause. Rumi hugged the pillow in her lap tighter.

“…So I get to say no? Even if it’s something small?”

“Especially if it’s something small,” Valerie said. “That’s how you learn to listen to yourself.”

Rumi was quiet again. Then finally, quietly: “Okay.”

Valerie smiled.

“That’s more than enough for today.”

And for the first time, Rumi’s shoulders dropped just a little. Not fully relaxed — but less tight. Less trapped.

She didn’t understand everything yet. But she was starting to know what she deserved.
And that was a start.

🦋

Zoey didn’t sit — she sort of dropped into the chair, curling one leg under herself as her fingers clenched the armrest. She didn’t meet Valerie’s eyes right away, already blinking fast. Too fast.

Valerie smiled gently and didn’t push. Just waited.

And then Zoey burst into tears.

It wasn’t delicate or quiet. It was the raw, helpless kind of crying — the kind that had waited way too long to come out. Her hands trembled. Her breath caught. And she started talking between sobs like someone had pulled a cork out of her chest and now everything was spilling out.

“I— I didn’t know it was gonna feel like that— I mean, I’ve been scared before but not like that, and I saw her on the ground and Bobby yelled and I thought she was— I thought she was— and Mira was so mad and I was just trying not to throw up and I wanted to help but I didn’t know what to do and—”

Valerie passed her a box of tissues wordlessly, moving it a little closer every time Zoey’s hand flailed off target.

“And I still don’t know what to do— she doesn’t even get what happened, like really doesn’t, and that’s so much worse because I don’t know how to explain it and if I mess it up it’s gonna hurt her and I don’t want to hurt her—”

Another tissue.

“I was so scared. I thought maybe she wouldn’t wake up. And then she did but it’s like she’s just not… all the way here yet and I’m so tired and I can’t sleep because my brain won’t shut up and I don’t want to be the weak one but it’s just all too much.”

She dissolved into hiccuping sobs, face blotchy and nose red, but she kept going until she finally ran out of steam — or air.

Valerie waited until the silence was real, not just the space between more words. She reached out with one hand, palm up, not grabbing — just offering.

Zoey took it like a lifeline, squeezing hard.

“You’re not weak,” Valerie said softly. “You’re overloaded. That’s not the same thing.”

Zoey sniffled. “It feels like drowning.”

“I know,” Valerie said, still calm. “So. Let’s talk about what we can do when it gets to be too much.”

Zoey wiped her nose again. “Like… fix it?”

“Not always fix,” Valerie said. “But slow it down. Anchor yourself. Get back in your body. Do you already have something that helps when your feelings feel too big?”

Zoey blinked, like she’d never been asked that before.

“…Turtles,” she said finally. “They’re slow and calm. And they’re always okay.”

Valerie smiled. “Turtles are perfect. What else?”

“Baths,” Zoey said immediately. “Really warm ones. With salts and stuff. And sometimes I just… float. With music. Like a mermaid with problems.”

Valerie chuckled. “I love that. Baths and turtles. That’s a good start.”

She jotted it down on a small notepad and handed Zoey a tiny card with simple grounding suggestions — breathing exercises, sensory tools, a reminder that emotions pass, no matter how huge they feel in the moment.

“We’ll work on more together,” she said gently. “But for now, I want you to remember: you don’t have to hold everything alone. Not for Rumi, not for Mira, not for me. You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes. That’s why we’re here — so you don’t have to do it all on your own.”

Zoey looked at the card in her hand. It wasn’t magic. But it was something solid. Something she could use.

“…Thank you,” she whispered.

“You’re welcome,” Valerie said. “Now go draw some turtles or claim the bathtub before Mira does.”

Zoey gave a watery laugh, already easing into herself again.

It wasn’t fixed. But it was moving.

🦋

Mira walked into the room like she didn’t want to be there — shoulders squared, arms crossed tightly, jaw set. Her eyes swept across the space like it was some kind of trap, and she sat down stiffly, as if the chair might break her posture if she wasn’t careful.

Valerie didn’t react to it. She just gave a gentle nod and stayed quiet for a few moments, letting the silence settle before she asked, “Is there something you’d like to talk about today?”

Mira shook her head immediately. “No. I’m okay. Really.” Her voice was firm, a little too fast. “I’ve seen enough therapists to last me a lifetime.”

Valerie nodded slowly, as if that wasn’t a surprise. “Because of behavioral issues?”

Mira blinked. “Wow. Straight to it.”

“Bobby mentioned it before,” Valerie said easily. “It’s just information. Not a judgment.”

Mira shifted in her seat. She wasn’t exactly relaxed, but at least she didn’t leave. She stared past Valerie for a long moment, then finally said, “There is… one thing.”

Valerie waited.

“I saw the video,” Mira said quietly. “Of me. Hitting that guy.”

Her arms dropped, folding into her lap now, the steel in her shoulders loosening. “It’s everywhere. People still think I caused all of it — like I flipped out for no reason. Some articles call me unstable. Dangerous.”

She glanced sideways, jaw clenched. “But I’d do it again. I didn’t even hesitate then. I knew what happened.”

Valerie leaned forward slightly, voice calm. “And you were right to act.”

Mira looked at her sharply, almost skeptical.

“You saw someone you care about in danger,” Valerie continued. “You reacted. I might not have chosen the same way, but that anger? That instinct to protect someone you love? It’s valid. You don’t have to apologize for that.”

Mira’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I just… I don’t like being seen as violent. I’ve worked really hard to not be that person anymore.”

Valerie nodded. “I understand. But standing up for someone when they’re vulnerable — that’s not violence. That’s loyalty. You didn’t lash out randomly. You responded to a real threat.”

Mira went quiet again. Her fingers picked at the hem of her sleeve, restlessness returning in tiny flickers.

Valerie softened her tone. “How have you been sleeping since that night?”

Mira exhaled, looking away. “Badly. I keep waking up thinking… what if she’s not breathing? I check, like, five times a night. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Valerie said gently. “It’s fear. And it makes sense. You saw something traumatic, and now your brain’s trying to stay on high alert — even when it’s time to rest.”

Mira nodded once, a small movement.

“There are a few things we can try,” Valerie offered. “Breathing exercises, some visualization techniques — we’ll start with those. And if it’s still hard after a few nights, we can talk about temporary sleep aids.”

Mira made a face at that.

“Just options,” Valerie said easily, holding her hands up in a peaceable gesture. “But here’s another idea — and you can ignore it if it feels wrong — but sometimes what helps is simple. Physical reassurance. If Rumi’s okay with it, you can hold her. Just enough to feel her breathing. Sometimes your nervous system just needs to feel that everything is okay.”

Mira’s mouth twitched like she wanted to scoff, but couldn’t quite get it out.

“I already kinda do that,” she muttered. “Like I wake up and just… make sure she’s warm. That she’s still there.”

Valerie smiled. “Then you’re already doing the right thing.”

Mira didn’t smile back — not yet — but her jaw wasn’t as tight, and her eyes didn’t dart so sharply anymore.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “I’ll… try the breathing thing.”

“And that’s enough for today,” Valerie said gently. “You don’t have to do it all at once.”

For the first time, Mira gave a tiny nod. Still guarded. But maybe — just maybe — not completely closed off.

🦋

The three girls sat close together on the wide hotel suite couch, legs tucked under them, a shared blanket draped across their laps. Valerie sat across from them in a soft armchair, clipboard set aside for once, her expression open and kind.

“There’s one more thing I’d like us to talk about today,” she said gently, folding her hands in her lap. “Boundaries.”

Zoey shifted a little, her brow furrowing.

Valerie continued, “In groups — especially tight-knit ones like yours — things can fall apart fast if people overstep boundaries. Sometimes it happens out of carelessness, sometimes because people don’t know those boundaries are there. But knowing where someone draws the line — and respecting that line — is how you keep trust strong.”

The girls were quiet. No one jumped in immediately.

“So,” Valerie said patiently, “I’d like to hear one boundary from each of you. Something important. And it can be small, or private, or something that only recently became clear. Whatever feels right. We’re just setting a foundation.”

Zoey was the first to speak, her voice a little shy but firm. “I… write the lyrics in my journals,” she said, eyes flicking to the other two briefly. “But not all of them are lyrics. Some of them are just… thoughts. Feelings. Stuff that’s not for anyone else.”

Rumi and Mira both nodded right away, no hesitation.

“Totally fair,” Mira said. “We’ll keep out unless you say otherwise.”

Rumi gave a small smile. “Yeah, of course.”

Zoey looked relieved.

Mira leaned back slightly, then added, “Mine’s kind of… behavioral. I don’t do well with being ordered around.” She gave Valerie a glance and then looked at the girls. “Like, if someone says ‘Do this’ instead of ‘Can you’ or ‘Would you’, my brain just shuts down and gets… prickly. Defensive. I know it’s dumb, but it’s wired in.”

Zoey raised her hand like she was swearing an oath. “We’ll phrase it like requests.”

Rumi nodded again, thoughtful.

Then all eyes slowly turned to her.

“I’m not sure,” she said, hesitating. “I don’t… really think I have any? Or maybe I just don’t know what counts.”

That hung for a moment. Mira and Zoey stayed quiet, giving her time.

But then something flickered across Rumi’s face — a sudden, half-buried memory.

“Well… actually, maybe one thing.” Her voice lowered slightly. “I know I was… out of it. When you changed me. And I get that you had to, and I don’t mind. Really, I don’t. But… if that ever happens again — if I’m ever unconscious or something — please don’t change my top. Leave it. Even if it’s dirty.”

There was silence for a beat.

“A little weird?” Rumi asked softly.

“No,” Zoey said instantly, gently. “Not at all.”

Mira gave a crooked smile. “So pants are fair game, but shirts are sacred. Got it.”

“Yes,” Rumi replied, completely serious.

Valerie gave a small, warm smile. “You’re all doing really well,” she said, sincerity in her voice. “Boundaries don’t always come easy — especially in your world. But you’re showing each other care. And that’s something a lot of people your age struggle to even begin talking about.”

They sat a little taller at that — not proud exactly, but steadied by the praise.

“I’d like to keep seeing you all,” Valerie added. “If you’re open to that. We can do group sessions, one-on-ones — whatever feels helpful. And if it’s easier, you can talk about what you want with Bobby, and he can relay it to me.”

The girls nodded, all in unison.

“Okay,” Valerie said gently. “That’s it for today. Go easy on yourselves.”

And for the first time since that awful night, the mood felt lighter. Not fixed. Not perfect. But moving forward — together.

A quiet settled over the hotel suite once Valerie left. Not heavy or tense — just the kind of silence that follows when too many emotions have passed through a room. The three girls sat there for a moment, still, almost fragile in their exhaustion.

Zoey was the first to break it. Her voice was soft. “Can we just… not talk anymore tonight? Like, no feelings. Just… ocean documentary or something.”

Rumi, curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon, gave a tiny nod. “That’s fine.”

“I like oceans,” she added after a moment. Quiet, honest.

Mira stretched, cracking her shoulders, and stood up. “I’ll make something fast. Like, throw-together pasta or rice bowls or whatever. Comfort food.”

No one objected.

Fifteen minutes later, Mira returned with mismatched bowls in hand, something warm and savory steaming inside. No one asked what it was. They just ate it quietly, like it was the first real meal in days — because for Rumi, it kind of was.

Once the bowls were empty and the lights dimmed, Zoey put on the ocean documentary — one of those slow-moving, narratively gentle ones, with sweeping blue shots of kelp forests and whales floating through sun-dappled water.

They all huddled back onto the couch, pressed together in a messy pile of pillows and throw blankets.

Mira looked over at Rumi, her voice low and almost hesitant. “Hey, um… would it be okay if I cuddled you? Just like… held on? So I know you’re still breathing.”

Rumi blinked, then gave a small shrug. “Sure. Doesn’t bother me.”

Mira didn’t say anything more, just carefully slipped her arms around Rumi’s waist and leaned her head against her shoulder, as if needing that contact to prove the world hadn’t come apart after all.

Zoey was already half-asleep, her head dropping sideways, hand still loosely clutching the remote.

The screen glowed blue, waves shifting gently across it, and the soft narration washed over them like a lullaby.

None of them made it to the end of the episode.

Somewhere between the coral reefs and the migrating turtles, the three girls drifted off — limbs tangled, breath steady, the room warm and quiet. And for the first time in days, there was no panic. No fear.

Just rest.

Chapter Text

Therapy had been… too much.
But also, exactly what needed to happen.

For Rumi, it was like someone cracked open a window to a room she never knew she’d been locked inside. Like Valerie had taken a flashlight and pointed it into all the corners of her upbringing — and suddenly, Rumi could see.

And what she saw made her stomach turn.

Consent. Coercion. Power imbalance. Vulnerability.
What could’ve happened.
What almost happened.

Valerie didn’t sugarcoat anything. Not when the foundation Rumi had been given was made of silence and obedience and rules she was never allowed to question.

And when it finally clicked — really, truly clicked — something in Rumi shattered.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just… quiet and terrible.

She blinked once.
Then again.
Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

Then suddenly she was curling in on herself like paper to flame, her breath coming in sharp, broken gasps.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered, voice paper-thin. “I didn’t know.”

Zoey, who’d been sitting beside her the entire session, instantly reached over and grabbed her hand. “Rumi—hey. Hey, it’s okay.”

But Rumi flinched at the word.

“No it’s not. It’s not okay,” she whispered. Her voice cracked, and she covered her mouth with one trembling hand. “I didn’t even think it was… wrong. I just thought it was gross. I thought… no one would ever want to—” She broke off, hiccuping on the sob, her voice folding in on itself.

Zoey’s own tears spilled instantly. “Don’t say that. Don’t—Rumi, no.” She pressed her forehead to Rumi’s shoulder, voice trembling. “You matter, you— You always mattered. I was so scared when I saw you on the floor— I thought—” Her voice gave out.

Mira, who had been stiff and unmoving through most of the session, let out a choked breath and looked away like she could outrun her own emotions. But her eyes were glassy, her jaw tight.

“She doesn’t get it,” Mira muttered, voice hoarse, and not to be cruel — but because it hurt. “She really didn’t know. No one told her anything.”

“I thought it was normal,” Rumi whispered. Her voice cracked again, face buried in her knees. “I thought I was just supposed to listen and follow the rules. That I wasn’t allowed to say no.”

Valerie, sitting across from them with quiet grace, finally spoke. Her voice was soft but steady.

“Who told you that you weren’t allowed to say no?”

“Celine,” Rumi breathed. “Not directly. But… it’s in the rules. The training. You don’t disobey. You don’t make things difficult. You don’t complain. You just… perform.”

Zoey let out another sob. Mira turned away completely, hand over her face.

Valerie leaned forward slightly. “That wasn’t raising, Rumi. That was conditioning. You said it yourself before — you were trained, not taught. Not loved. And you deserve to be loved. You deserve to be safe.”

“I didn’t even fight,” Rumi whispered, her voice small. “I just let it happen. If Bobby hadn’t—” Her chest hitched again. “Why didn’t I—?”

“You were drugged,” Valerie said gently. “Your body shut down. Your survival instincts did their job. You froze, and that’s not weakness. That’s biology protecting you.”

Silence fell heavy in the room again, only broken by Zoey’s soft crying and Mira’s uneven breathing.

Then Rumi whispered, almost inaudible, “I feel so dirty.”

“No,” Zoey said immediately, fiercely, eyes brimming. “No. Don’t you ever say that. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were the one who got hurt. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

Valerie handed over a tissue box without a word. Her calm presence was like an anchor.

Eventually, Rumi let Zoey lean against her. Mira came back to the couch and simply held Rumi’s leg in a silent, grounding touch.

The storm had passed — or at least pulled far enough out to sea that they could breathe again.

After therapy, no one spoke much.

They didn’t need to. Their bodies did the talking — the slumped shoulders, the slow movements, the long-held eye contact that said I saw you break and I’m still here. Everyone was raw. Rubbed down to the nerve endings.

And so, they didn’t try to process more. Not yet.

They needed softness.

Bobby, seeing it all from a respectful distance, made the executive decision. “I’m ordering comfort food,” he said, already pulling up an app on his phone. “Greasy, cheesy, no-vegetable, pure-soul-repair food. Anyone got vetoes?”

No one did.

Within forty-five minutes, the room was filled with the smell of hot fries, garlic bread, spicy chicken tenders, gooey grilled cheese sandwiches, and pancakes. Yes — pancakes. Zoey had mumbled the craving, and Bobby had remembered.

No strangers delivered it. Just Bobby, knocking softly after retrieving it himself.

Rumi was curled in the corner of the couch, a hoodie two sizes too big pulled around her knees. She didn’t speak much, but she didn’t shy away when Zoey plopped down next to her and handed her a plate, or when Mira passed her a strawberry milkshake and said, “Don’t argue, it’s good for the soul.”

Rumi nodded, biting into a grilled cheese like she wasn’t even tasting it — just letting it exist in her mouth. But after a few seconds, she hummed. “It’s warm,” she murmured.

“That’s the point,” Mira said, taking a savage bite of her chicken tender. “Everything today sucked. We deserve soft and warm now.”

Zoey, halfway through her third pancake, looked at Rumi with a soft smile. “I’m glad we’re still here.”

Rumi blinked. “Where else would we be?”

Zoey didn’t answer. She just reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, resting her head there gently.

After they ate, they didn’t do much else.

Mira cleaned up without being asked — just doing it because she wanted to move — and then, without ceremony, returned to the couch and dropped herself onto the other side of Rumi. “Okay if I…?” she asked, not finishing the sentence.

Rumi, still half in her daze, nodded. “Mira… you don’t have to ask.”

“I do,” Mira said quietly, but laid her hand on Rumi’s arm anyway, thumb gently brushing back and forth.

The lights were low. The TV played a calming documentary Zoey had picked — sweeping views of ocean waves and whales breaching in slow motion. The narrator’s voice was soft and British, like he didn’t want to wake anyone.

Rumi curled up tighter, finally resting her cheek against Zoey’s shoulder.

Mira leaned her head against Rumi’s other side.

“I’m just gonna stay here,” Mira murmured. “So I know you’re still breathing.”

“That’s fine,” Rumi mumbled back. “You’re warm.”

Zoey chuckled tearfully, reaching to rub a gentle circle into Rumi’s back. “You’re both warm. We’re like a living heating pad.”

“Better than an electric one,” Mira agreed, yawning. “Ours comes with emotional support.”

“I’ve got extra blankets,” Bobby called softly from down the hall.

“We’ve got each other,” Zoey called back, half-asleep.

The TV played on. The ocean glowed.

And there, on the couch — tangled in soft clothes and old pain and new beginnings — they all drifted off, together.

Wrapped in warmth.
Safe.
Healing.

At last.

🦋

That evening, after the girls had gone quiet again, Bobby stepped out onto the balcony to take a call.

It was Celine.

“The hiatus needs to end,” she said flatly. “It’s been a week. Media is starting to speculate.”

“No,” Bobby said, before she even finished.

A pause. “Excuse me?”

“I said no.”

“You don’t have that authority—”

“They’re not ready,” Bobby said. “They are three teenagers dealing with trauma that you helped create. If you’d seen what happened today—what Valerie saw—you wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

“They’re idols, Bobby. Not children.”

Bobby’s voice dropped. “They’re both. And right now? They’re people first. If you can’t understand that, maybe it’s time you stepped away.”

Silence crackled across the line.

And then he hung up.

🦋

The morning light filtered softly into the suite, warm and drowsy, casting golden edges on the mess of breakfast dishes and half-folded blankets. It was late — by idol standards, practically decadent — but no one had the energy to feel guilty about it. For once, they let themselves exist without hurrying.

Zoey was curled up with her knees tucked under her hoodie, Mira perched on the armrest beside her, her sharp eyes softened by sleep and time. Rumi sat at the center of the couch, fingers curled loosely around a warm mug of chamomile tea Bobby had made her. She hadn’t asked — he just knew.

Bobby sat across from them, documents in hand. He didn’t look like a businessman. He looked like someone who had walked through fire with them and hadn’t flinched.

“So,” he began gently, offering a small smile as he handed over a neatly clipped folder. “I wanted to give you the full picture. I know Zoey kind of promoted me on the spot, but this should be a group decision.”

Zoey grinned unapologetically. “Still stand by it.”

Mira took the folder without a word and began flipping through. The pages were tidy — his full resumé, references, past agency affiliations, tour logistics from his years with another group, training credentials, even past crisis management. She gave an impressed little hum. “Okay, yeah. This is solid.”

“I’ve been in this business long enough to know what’s wrong with it,” Bobby said. “And what it needs to do better.”

“I don’t need to read it,” Rumi said suddenly.

All eyes turned to her.

Bobby blinked. “You sure?”

Rumi nodded, her voice soft but unwavering. “Yeah. I’ve read a lot of papers the past two years. Contracts. Schedules. Damage control statements. Medical waivers. Most of them meant nothing. Just… noise.”

There was something bitter under her tone. Familiar.

“I don’t want to manage anymore,” she continued. “I was never supposed to. I just… did it. Because Celine wasn’t doing her job. Because she said we couldn’t afford a real manager, or didn’t need one. But I did everything. I planned the tours, reviewed the contracts, managed schedules, talked to stylists, even booked our rides half the time.”

“You were seventeen,” Bobby said softly, already knowing where this was going.

“I am seventeen,” Rumi corrected, then gave a short laugh. “And tired. Really tired. So yeah. I want to stop being our manager. I just want to be in the group. Just that.”

Zoey reached over without a word and touched Rumi’s hand.

“And if you’re okay dealing with us — and Celine,” she added, glancing at Bobby, “then yeah. I want it to be you.”

There was a flicker of emotion behind Bobby’s easy calm. “I already do deal with Celine,” he said. “I have since the second I took you to the hotel. I didn’t ask her permission — I informed her. And I’ll keep doing that. She doesn’t get to dictate your health or safety anymore.”

Mira nodded slowly. “Good. Because if she calls us one more time and asks about PR strategy before asking if Rumi’s alive, I might actually scream.”

Rumi took a breath, then asked impulsively, “Can I make a request?”

Bobby raised a brow. “Of course.”

“Can you keep handling her?” she asked. “Just… don’t let her talk to us. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary. I can’t do it anymore.”

Bobby didn’t hesitate. “Done. Consider it my job from now on.”

“And the label?” Rumi asked, a bit more quietly. “Do you still want to… deal with them? Officially? I mean, I can talk to them. Make it all formal. Sign you on properly.”

Bobby gave a small nod. “I’d like that. But only if you’re all sure.”

Zoey gave a thumbs up. Mira crossed her arms and gave a smirk. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to us in months. You’re already in.”

Rumi looked at him, something unspoken and exhausted but grateful shining in her eyes. “Okay then,” she said. “Let’s make it official.”

Bobby leaned forward with the smallest smile. “Alright, manager it is. But first — you three eat something, shower, and do nothing work-related for the rest of the day. That’s an order.”

Zoey saluted with her spoon. “Yes, sir.”

Mira rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Rumi just smiled — tired, but for the first time, fully relieved.

She wasn’t alone anymore.

🦋

The next week felt like air after suffocation.

Things weren’t perfect — they probably wouldn’t be for a long time — but there was movement again. Gentle, deliberate, healing movement.

Bobby had slipped so seamlessly into the role of manager it was almost strange to remember a time when he wasn’t there. He didn’t overstep. Didn’t push. He scheduled lightly, checked in often, and reminded them daily that rest was part of the job now, too.

Instead of high-stakes performances or packed rehearsals, their days were filled with fan letters, quiet practice, gentle vocal warmups (just enough to keep their muscles loose), and slow re-entry into public life. The first appearance back wasn’t a stage or an award show — it was a cozy little fansign, tucked in a sunlit room, with fans who cried just seeing that Rumi was healthy and smiling.

And when she did smile, it was smaller than before — but real. Soft and unguarded. It stayed longer.

No cameras backstage. No strangers near them. Just their team. Bobby had made that very clear.

It helped.

By the fifth day of this gentler schedule, Bobby called them all together in the hotel living room, arms full of sample fabrics and a gleam in his eyes.

“So,” he said, laying everything out across the low coffee table, “I’ve been working with the merchandise team.”

Zoey’s eyes lit up instantly. “Already?!”

“Already,” Bobby confirmed, flipping through mockups on a tablet. “Hoodies, shirts, bags, hair pins, notebooks, even enamel pins. I figured we start with casual streetwear, then move to seasonal drops. We’ve got a lot of options. But you get final say — your image, your rules.”

Rumi blinked at the sheer number of designs. “You did all this… already?”

Bobby grinned. “I don’t sleep much.”

Mira raised an eyebrow. “Respect.”

Zoey leaned forward, inspecting some of the mockups. “Oh! These are so cute. I love the color palette. That lilac hoodie? Yes, please.”

Bobby scrolled a little more. “We also thought about adding a fun limited run. Something bolder. Slightly meme-y, if you’re up for it.”

That’s when Rumi, almost shyly, raised her hand — more like lifted her fingers like she wasn’t sure she should speak.

“I, um… I had a thought,” she said. “It’s probably dumb.”

Mira looked at her. “Try me.”

Rumi flushed a little, but powered through. “You remember the video? Of Mira… punching that creep?”

Mira groaned. “Oh my god, that thing is still going around.”

“It is,” Bobby said calmly, “but most of the comments are positive now. A lot of people respect you for standing up for Rumi.”

Zoey nodded. “She’s kind of an icon.”

“Well…” Rumi hesitated, then looked at Bobby. “What if we leaned into it a little? Like… what if there was a hoodie that said something like… I don’t know, ‘Be a creep, get hit’ or something? With a comic-style graphic of Mira mid-punch?”

Zoey choked on her laughter. “That’s— wait, wait— that’s genius.”

“I love it,” Bobby said without missing a beat. “It’s empowering, it spins the narrative, and it’s honest. I can already see the back of the hoodie — bold font, Mira in a freeze-frame. It’d sell out in a week.”

Mira blinked at all of them. “Are you guys seriously okay with this?”

Rumi shrugged, but there was mischief behind it. “You’re the strongest person I know. I think people should wear that.”

Zoey gave her a hug from the side. “We’re reclaiming the moment. Turning it into armor.”

Bobby grinned. “Besides, it’s practically already a meme. We might as well own it.”

Mira groaned, hiding her smile behind her hand. “God, fine. But if my parents see it, I’m blaming all of you.”

Zoey laughed. “Deal.”

There was a lightness in the room — the kind that came after storms. Not ignorance of what had happened… but peace in knowing they were moving forward, together. Stronger. Smarter. Still themselves.

And now, apparently, with a whole line of hoodies to prove it.

🦋

The room was humming with excitement.

Bright banners with the group’s name fluttered gently from the ceiling. A long table had been set up in front of a neat barrier of ropes, fans queued behind it with lightsticks, albums, and wide eyes. Everyone had been screened, security posted at every corner, and a handful of plainclothes guards lingered just beyond sight. Bobby had gone over the security protocols twice himself that morning — no unknown staff, no open bags near the girls, no sudden movements. He wasn’t taking any chances.

And when the girls walked in — Zoey in a soft yellow cardigan, Mira with her bomber jacket half-zipped, Rumi in a hoodie that said “soft ≠ weak” — the room exploded in cheers.

They sat, smiling and waving, as the first group of fans approached.

It was… a lot. The enthusiasm, the questions, the constant flashing of phone cameras. A few fans cried, especially when they reached Rumi, thanking her for coming back, saying they were so scared when the rumors started. One boy, maybe sixteen, shakily handed her a small origami turtle and said, “You’re really brave, you know that?” before fleeing in embarrassment. Rumi looked at the little turtle in her palm for a long second before gently placing it in front of her and smiling — real, warm.

Mira signed a fan’s album and had to stop when they started excitedly quoting the “Be a creep, get hit” hoodie, then showed her they were already wearing it. She snorted. “That hoodie’s gonna be the death of me.” But she posed with them anyway, fist raised in mock punch.

Zoey got overwhelmed at one point — too many people, too many eyes — and Bobby noticed instantly. He gave a subtle nod to one of the staffers, and within seconds, the line was paused, the music turned down a notch, and someone handed her a juice box. Zoey gave him a grateful look before turning back to the crowd like nothing had happened.

And Bobby, watching from the side, arms crossed, couldn’t stop the slow, proud smile from spreading across his face.

They were okay.

More than okay.

They were back.

Even when a camera crew arrived — approved and briefed in advance — and began filming a short segment for the entertainment news, the girls didn’t flinch. They smiled and waved, Mira cracking jokes, Zoey laughing freely, Rumi holding up her origami turtle for the camera and saying softly, “This one’s my favorite gift today.”

Once it wrapped, they sprawled across the green room couch like they’d just climbed a mountain.

“That was…” Zoey sighed, “…way more than I thought it’d be.”

“But good,” Rumi added quickly, tugging off her hoodie and patting her flushed face with a cool towel. “Really good.”

Mira nodded, leaning her head against the back of the couch. “No creeps. No weird moments. Just excited fans and too many cameras.”

Bobby handed her a bottle of water. “You handled it all perfectly. I couldn’t be prouder.”

There was a beat. Then Zoey sat up, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

“…What if we did a concert tonight?” she said.

Rumi blinked. “Tonight?”

“Not a full thing,” Mira added, catching on. “Just a short set. A few songs. Livestreamed. Casual, like… just us and the fans again.”

“We’ve rested,” Zoey said. “We’re ready to try.”

Rumi bit her lip. Thought about it. Then nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Bobby blinked — surprised, but not unhappy. “If you’re sure, I’ll make the calls. We can use the rehearsal space downstairs. I’ll get the stream link set up and send a teaser post. You’ve got… two hours?”

The girls looked at each other.

“That’s more than enough,” Mira smirked.

It wasn’t a giant stadium. It wasn’t blinding lights or screaming pyrotechnics. Just a warmly lit studio, a tight camera crew, a single cameraman, and the girls standing side by side in coordinated streetwear.

The stream went live, the viewer count ticking up by the thousands within seconds. Messages flew across the chat. Hearts and turtle emojis flooded the screen.

They sang four songs — soft, acoustic versions of their hits. No choreo. Just harmonies, smiles, little jokes between lines.

Zoey got misty-eyed halfway through and didn’t even try to hide it. Mira pulled her close with one arm and kept singing.

Rumi led the last chorus — the one she’d once struggled to get through — and this time her voice was clear, confident, even playful.

When it ended, they waved, said “thank you” about a hundred times, and turned off the stream.

And in the silence that followed, Bobby just whispered, “You did it.”

Mira wiped sweat from her brow. “We really did.”

Zoey beamed.

And Rumi — still holding the little turtle from earlier in her hoodie pocket — whispered, “I think we’re going to be okay.”

Chapter Text

Before rehearsals.
Before meetings.
Before they could even think about a comeback stage.

Therapy came first.

Because no glitter or spotlight could glue together what had cracked beneath the surface.

And Rumi?
Rumi didn’t just need healing — she needed to be rebuilt. Piece by piece.

Valerie Kinbott became a fixture in their lives.
Not stiff or clinical, but steady. Grounded. The kind of calm that didn’t ask for permission, just was. Her voice never rose above a certain softness. Her presence never demanded. But the girls began to lean toward her instinctively — like houseplants toward light.

She came with warm cardigans and cooler water bottles. She offered tissues before tears fell, and silence before the storm. And she never pushed. Just opened doors — and waited.

Group sessions were twice a week, always starting the same way.

“How are we today?” Valerie would ask gently, eyes moving across each girl with patient curiosity. “And how’s your body?”

Sometimes they answered with sarcasm. Sometimes with silence.

Sometimes with too much.

One week, Rumi whispered, “I feel like I’m made of glass,” and Zoey reached over the couch just to hold her hand.

Another week, Mira said nothing at all until the very end, when she muttered, “I think I’m tired of holding knives in my chest for people who don’t even know they put them there.”

Valerie only nodded, her voice low. “That’s a very brave thing to say.”

There were laughs too — sometimes hysterical, sometimes exhausted. Like when Zoey admitted she calms down by looking at pictures of baby turtles.

“Or when I make bath bombs explode. That helps.”

“Destruction as self-care,” Valerie smiled. “Very on brand.”

But Rumi’s path was different.
More fractured.
More fragile.

She began attending three individual sessions per week.
Because once the surface cracked, everything she’d shoved down since childhood came rushing up like floodwater.

At first, it was confusion. Then fear. Then grief so deep she could barely name it.

She would curl into herself, knees drawn up, lips trembling, and whisper, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know I was supposed to matter.”

There were sessions where she sobbed so hard her whole body trembled, unable to speak.
Others where she sat in silence, staring at her own hands like she’d never seen them before.

“They feel fake,” she said once. “Like they belong to someone I’m pretending to be.”

Valerie never flinched.
She sat beside her. Not across, never above.

“Rumi,” she’d say gently, “those are your hands. This is your life. You don’t need permission to be in it.”

It wasn’t just about the trauma of what had nearly happened that night.
It was the realization that she had never even learned about consent. About boundaries. About worth.

She hadn’t been raised.
She’d been trained.

Perfection had been her only language. Obedience her only currency. Survival her only instinct.

But Valerie helped her unlearn all of it.
Slowly. Gently. With metaphors and quiet truths.

“You are not a doll,” Valerie said once, placing a hand over Rumi’s closed fist. “You don’t owe performance to be loved.”

Rumi blinked at her. “I… don’t?”

“No,” Valerie said. “Your value isn’t in what you do. It’s in who you are.”

Little by little, the healing became visible.

The girls started laughing more. Eating better. Asking for space when they needed it. Cuddling without shame.

And when one of them said “no” — it wasn’t taken personally. It was respected.

They were no longer performers trapped in glitter cages.
They were girls — messy, strong, healing — finally learning how to be whole.

And Valerie?

She stayed.

Every step. Every storm.
With kindness like armor, and truth like balm.

🦋

It didn’t start with fanfare.
No triumphant music. No bold social media teaser.
Just the quiet sound of sneakers squeaking across polished floors and the gentle hum of a speaker warming up.

After therapy built a foundation of healing — training returned.

Not like before. Not with that sharp, silent pressure that used to crawl down Rumi’s spine like a second skin.
This time, it began soft. Measured. Like stretching a sore muscle and finding it no longer screams.

Singing, dancing, breathing — all of it came back slowly, like rediscovering an old language in their own voices.
And always… Bobby was there.

Not just as a manager.
As something steadier.

He leaned against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, that ever-watchful glint in his eye — not critical, not cold. Attentive. Human. The kind of presence that made the room feel safer by default. The kind that noticed the tremble in Rumi’s legs before she did.

“Rumi, break,” he called one afternoon.

“I’m fine,” she lied, wobbling in the last chorus move.

“Yeah,” Bobby said with a warm grin. “And I’m a back-up dancer for Beyoncé. Sit down.”

She huffed, half-laughed — and sat.

Zoey tossed her a towel. Mira gave her a look that said don’t even try to argue, and plopped down next to her with a water bottle.

But Bobby didn’t always watch from the sidelines.

Sometimes — especially when the choreographer got stuck, or Mira joked that he was too stiff to keep up — Bobby would step onto the floor.

And somehow, he always nailed the choreo. Smooth. Sharp. Effortless.

“Okay, wait,” Zoey gasped one afternoon, pointing at him mid-spin. “How are you better than us?”

“I’m not,” he said, not even breathless. “I just have old knees and good memory.”

“Wait, were you actually an idol?” Mira asked, raising a brow.

“Third-gen,” he said with a wink, tossing his towel over his shoulder. “Boy group called Stellar Sky. We weren’t big, but we toured Asia. Had some die-hard fans. Broke a toe once doing a knee-slide in Tokyo.”

“You’re kidding,” Rumi murmured, eyes wide.

“Why do you think I know what you’re all putting your bodies through?” he said, laughing. “I’ve been there. Slept under the rehearsal piano. Sprained things I didn’t know I had. But I loved it, too.”

And it showed.

Sometimes, he’d suggest a slight shift in a formation, or tighten a move that wasn’t hitting. Other times, he’d just dance alongside them — not as a test, not to prove anything, but as someone who understood the rhythm in his bones.

The girls adored it. Mira secretly filmed one of his solo runs and titled it: “Manager Bobby, still got it.”

He didn’t mind. He even laughed when she edited in a sparkling filter and uploaded it to the group chat with dramatic music.

They were getting stronger.

Not just in stamina, or precision — but in spirit.
The weight was lighter. The smiles came easier.

Zoey’s harmonies gained more texture. Mira’s moves grew sharper, more emotive. And Rumi — she danced now like she was telling her own story, not just someone else’s.

Even the staff picked up on it.

“Their energy feels different,” the vocal coach whispered to Bobby after a long session. “Like… brighter.”

“They’re becoming themselves,” he replied, quietly proud. “Not products. People.”

And it wasn’t just performance training anymore.
It was therapy. It was community. It was joy.

Every week, Valerie’s sessions helped strip another layer of self-doubt from their shoulders. And every practice, they stood a little taller.

This wasn’t a return to the stage.
This was a reclaiming of it.

🦋

Demon fighting had become part of their rhythm now.
A strange, dangerous echo in the background of their rehearsals, therapy, and lives under bright stage lights.
No one talked about it in public, of course. But the bruises beneath their sleeves, the scorched soles of their boots, the occasional glowing scratch along a jawline — it was all real. And it never stopped.

Mira and Zoey still led the charge in every fight — the point of the spear. Fast, fierce, instinctive.

Mira was a storm — her woldo, a long curved blade mounted on a pole, spun in sweeping arcs of steel and grace. It glowed faintly with charged energy every time it struck, slicing through the heavy, shifting forms of the demons. She fought with fury in her steps, like her anger had a body of its own.

Beside her, Rumi danced differently — calmer, deliberate. Her sword wasn’t large, but it gleamed sharp as reason. She defended first, cutting in clean counterstrikes that vanished the demons into bursts of flickering light. Precision over power.

Zoey was the chaos between them. She darted, agile and fast, her twin throwing daggers never missing their marks. They glinted once in the low light — then pierced shadowy flesh — and the monsters burst into pale embers, gone without a trace.

The demons were unnatural. Shadows with claws and teeth, always half-formed, as if they barely existed in this reality. But the damage they did — that was very real.

By the time the last one screamed into light and vanished, the girls stood in the stillness, panting, scraped, and bruised. Their weapons flickered — and in a soft shimmer, they too evaporated into air, leaving only sweat and blood behind.

No one else saw. No one ever did.

When they returned to the hotel, it was past 3 a.m.

They snuck in through the staff entrance, jackets pulled over their scratched arms, hair tied up to hide the grime. The security guard barely looked up from his phone.

By the time they reached the suite, Zoey collapsed into a groan on the couch. Mira kicked her boots off and cracked her neck.

“We can’t keep coming back here like this,” she said flatly.

“Eventually, someone’s gonna notice,” Zoey muttered, eyes closed. “And I am not explaining demon blood to housekeeping.”

“I almost stabbed a bellhop last night,” Mira added. “He moved too fast.”

Rumi pulled her hoodie off and sat on the floor, back to the couch. She said nothing at first. Then, softly:

“We need a base.”

Both Mira and Zoey paused.

Then Zoey raised a hand limply in agreement. “Yes. One with showers. And a fridge that isn’t communal.”

“Seconded,” Mira said.

Rumi looked at both of them. “We’ll talk to Bobby tomorrow. He can probably help.”

Bobby was, as usual, already halfway through a coffee and answering three emails at once when the girls padded in — all in sweatpants and quiet energy.

He looked up with a smile. “Good morning, or should I say… afternoon?”

Zoey plopped into a chair. “We need to talk to you.”

His eyebrows rose, the way they always did when he was trying to gauge if the conversation would include contracts, broken hearts, or damage control. “Okay… shoot.”

“We need our own space,” Rumi said plainly. “Somewhere private. Somewhere… just ours.”

Bobby blinked once. “Like… another suite?”

“No,” Mira said. “Like a safe space. Where no one asks questions.”

“Somewhere we can rest,” Zoey added. “Unwind. Be us.”

He watched them for a moment — the way their eyes were tired in a way that couldn’t be explained by rehearsal hours alone. Something deeper. Something they hadn’t told him.

But Bobby, despite being incredibly perceptive, still didn’t know the full truth.

He didn’t know about the demons. About the weapons that shimmered into their hands when things got dangerous. About the fact that these girls — idols on stage — were also fighters beneath the city.

But he did trust them. And that was enough.

He got up, walked to the kitchen, and returned with a folder.

“I figured you’d bring this up eventually,” he said, laying it on the table. “It’s a place I’ve been keeping an eye on. Off-grid. Unfinished tower, private property rights just came up for lease.”

He flipped the folder open, revealing pictures of a sleek, unmarked building. Modern, nondescript from the outside. Inside: open floors, sublevels, rooftop access.

Rumi leaned over. “Wait… this is real?”

“Completely,” Bobby said. “Tech firm went bankrupt midway through construction. Security system is top-notch, plumbing’s in, and I know a guy who can furnish the entire place discreetly.”

Mira’s eyes lit up. “We’d get the whole tower?”

“All twelve floors,” Bobby grinned.

Zoey squealed, clapping. “Can we decorate?”

“Absolutely.”

Rumi blinked, stunned. “You’ve really… thought of everything.”

“I try,” Bobby said. “So… what do you think?”

Rumi met Mira’s eyes, then Zoey’s.

She smiled, small but real. “I think we’ve found our home.”

🦋

The air inside the venue vibrated.

A hum at first — electric, restless, eager — rising with every heartbeat as the lights dimmed into a deep, pulsing red. It wasn’t just anticipation anymore; it was fervor. The kind that lives in the chest and spills out through chants, light sticks, and homemade hoodies proudly stitched with:

“Be a creep, get hit.”

Outside, the fans were packed shoulder to shoulder. Some teary-eyed before the first note. Some wild with adrenaline. Some just holding their breath.

They’d waited. Wondered. Worried.

And now, the girls were back.

Zoey cracked her knuckles and bounced on her toes, her lips moving silently — not nerves, but timing, muscle memory. Rehearsal in her blood.

Rumi stood still, eyes closed, a steadying breath in her chest.

Mira flexed her fingers behind her back, one brow raised. “You two ready to break the earth?”

Zoey huffed a small grin. “Hope they reinforced the stage.”

The three of them stood together in matching fits — combat-styled, sleek and angled like armor. Black with flashes of crimson, metal detailing, and asymmetrical cuts. Nothing pastel. Nothing soft. Their debut days were a memory. This was the comeback.

A war cry in synths and steel.

Their earpieces crackled once. Bobby’s voice. Calm. Centered. “Standby… curtain in five.”

They nodded without speaking.

And then — blackout.

The first beat dropped like thunder cracking open the sky.

A heavy synth hit. Then another. The bass rumbled low and powerful, rising from the floor into their bones — the sound of something beginning.

And then:
Zoey.

Her voice ripped into the first verse, spitting bars with bite and brilliance:

“You want sweet? Wrong door.
You want silence? Not anymore.
We train like storms, bleed for stage,
Pretty face, sharper blade, built for rage.”

The crowd exploded.

Her cadence was fast but clean, every syllable a precise slice through the haze of noise. Fans screamed her name, fists in the air. On her heels, Mira jumped into the second verse with that signature growl of hers — not rapping, but snapping each line with rhythmic venom, backing Zoey’s flow with fire.

Then Rumi stepped forward — and the tone shifted.

She took the pre-chorus with a clarity that made the audience hush mid-scream. Her voice, once soft, now rang out like tempered steel.

“Don’t tell me to shrink for your comfort.
I’m not made to fold, not made to break.”

And then the chorus — a fusion of them all, layered and bold, backed by the stomping choreo that made the floor shake:

“I rise when they push, I hit when they creep
No shame in my power, no silence, no sleep
We strike for the ones told to fade and obey
This stage is our sword — now get out of the way.”

The curtain flew up — and so did the crowd.

Flashbulbs, lights, pure sound. But the girls didn’t flinch. Their formation snapped into place like the click of a loaded gun. Every move was earned. Every gesture clean, sharp, with intent behind it.

Zoey was untouchable. Fluid. Commanding the stage with every step and verse, her expression fierce, sweat beading at her temple but not slowing her for a second.

Mira was wild, all spin and swagger. Her footwork tight, her woldo-inspired choreo movements cutting through air. She smirked mid-step, cocky and blazing.

And Rumi?

Rumi moved like the spotlight was hers by birthright.

A month ago, she couldn’t meet her own eyes in the mirror. Tonight, she danced like she belonged here. Not just survived — belonged.

Her hoodie from rehearsal was tied around her waist like a sash. A trophy. A symbol. She hit every mark with fire in her chest, her limbs clean and powerful.

She grinned once — not because she was performing.

Because she finally felt like herself.

Bobby stood at the tech booth, headset in place, watching it all unfold.

Every lighting cue landed. Every mic channel was perfect. The dancers didn’t miss a beat. The screens pulsed with flame and glitch effects synced to every drop.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

He just pressed a hand to the front of his clipboard and smiled — quiet, full, proud.

The comeback was no longer just a return.

It was a declaration.

🦋

Their comeback didn’t just hit — it detonated.

The day after their performance, social media burned with clips of their live show. Fan edits, fancams, lyric breakdowns — everywhere. Everywhere. Hashtags trended globally. The hoodie — “Be a creep, get hit” — sold out in under twenty minutes. The label had to double the order. Then triple it. Still not enough.

The single topped every digital chart within 36 hours.

Demand surged. Their fanbase swelled. What had nearly broken them had somehow forged something stronger — a new identity, grounded in truth, pain, and unity.

And when Bobby asked if they were ready for the next chapter…

They said yes.

The Huntrix Tower stood tall in the glittering skyline like it had been waiting for them.

Sleek, modern, and discreet — the building was one part fortress, one part sanctuary. Security systems were top of the line, the lobby staff briefed and trustworthy, the underground garage sealed like a vault. No press. No strangers. No risk.

And the top floor?

It was theirs.

A sprawling penthouse level remodeled just for them. Four bedrooms — one each, plus a guest — all equal in size but wildly different in personality. A shared open-plan living room, floor-to-ceiling windows, a modern kitchen, and a balcony that seemed to float above the city.

It was like breathing out for the first time in months.

They arrived with boxes, bags, and barely contained excitement.

Mira was first to barrel down the hallway, throwing open each door with wild joy until she found the one with the sharpest view of the skyline. “Mine!” she yelled, spinning on her heel like she’d just won a game show. “Do not even try to argue.”

Zoey peeked into hers next — pastel touches already pre-ordered and waiting in boxes. “It’s so quiet up here,” she whispered, stepping barefoot onto the warm wooden floor. “I think I’m going to cry. Like, in a good way.”

Rumi lingered in the hallway, fingers brushing the edge of a light switch. “So… we really live here now?” she asked, almost disbelieving. Her voice was soft — not nervous, just overwhelmed.

“Yeah,” Bobby said from behind them, arms crossed but smiling. “You do.”

She blinked. Then nodded once. And then stepped into her room — the one with the softest light and the cleanest walls. A fresh start. Hers.

That first evening, they sat in their living room — ramen bowls balanced on the coffee table, socks off, faces glowing from the city lights spilling in through the giant windows.

Mira sprawled on the floor with a bottle of soda. Zoey curled up against the corner of the couch, already sketching ideas for new merch on a tablet. Rumi leaned against the balcony door, hood up, her face peaceful for the first time in ages.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t flashy.

It just felt… right.

The tower wasn’t just a place to live. It was theirs.

No more sneaking in late after demon fights.

No more tiny dorms shared with managers breathing down their necks.

No more pretending to be safe when they weren’t.

This was the beginning of a new rhythm.

And this time, they were the ones writing it.

Chapter Text

Settling into life at the top of the Huntrix Tower came with its own kind of magic.

There were no stage lights here, no forced smiles or lurking cameras — just morning sunlight spilling over soft blankets, the hum of a coffee machine, and the quiet sound of bare feet padding across warm wooden floors.

The girls quickly fell into a rhythm that was entirely theirs.

Mira and Zoey discovered the building’s luxury bathhouse on the third floor within the first week. The steam, the scent of eucalyptus, the marble benches that radiated heat — it was their kind of heaven.

“Come with us, Rumi,” Mira called every time, already tying her hair up.

Zoey, grinning beside her in her towel wrap, would nod encouragingly. “It’s so relaxing. You’d love it!”

Rumi, curled up on the couch in her oversized hoodie, usually blinked up from her book and shook her head. “I’ll pass.”

“Why?” Mira would ask, dramatic as ever. “You hate being clean?”

“I just… I don’t like being around that much skin.”

“… Okay.”

Still, even if she skipped the bathhouse adventures, Rumi was getting visibly softer with them. One night, she flopped down next to Mira on the couch and rested her head on her shoulder without a word. Another time, she curled against Zoey under a shared blanket during a movie and fell asleep twenty minutes in.

The girls didn’t say anything — they just let her.

They knew where that need for closeness came from. How long it had been denied. How Celine’s twisted control had left Rumi starved for simple, gentle affection. And they weren’t about to deny her now.

So whenever Rumi reached out, Mira would quietly drape an arm around her, and Zoey would just smile and scoot closer.

It became a silent agreement:

Touch was safe here.

🦋

One cozy afternoon, the three of them were tangled together on their enormous sectional couch like a nest of sleepy housecats. Rain whispered against the floor-to-ceiling windows of their tower, turning the whole living room into a hazy watercolor of city lights and grey skies. The television played something soft in the background — some nature documentary about arctic foxes — but none of them were really watching.

Zoey had fallen asleep first, curled on one end with a fleece blanket up to her chin and her sketchpad slipping off her lap, the pencil still resting between her fingers. Her soft breaths were nearly inaudible, but the peaceful weight of her presence filled the room.

Rumi lay in the middle, sprawled lazily on her back, legs tangled with Mira’s. Her fingers idly stroked the seam of the blanket. Mira, perched on the opposite end with her feet propped in Rumi’s lap, glanced toward Zoey and smiled — that warm, fond kind of smile that bloomed from somewhere deep in the chest.

She leaned closer and whispered, “She turns eighteen in two weeks.”

Rumi blinked slowly, pulling her gaze from the rain. “She does?”

Mira nodded. “Yep. Our little sunshine’s becoming legal.”

Rumi squinted. “Isn’t legal in Korea nineteen?”

“It is,” Mira said, shrugging one shoulder, “but eighteen still counts. It’s the beginning of her ‘almost-adult’ arc.”

“She’s always been legal in spirit,” Rumi muttered, smirking, voice low to avoid waking her.

Mira let out a soft laugh. “True. She’s got more heart and fire than most adults I know.”

They fell into a moment of quiet again. Outside, the rain thickened, drops tracing slow rivers down the glass. Inside, the warmth was thick with safety, the kind that only existed between people who had seen each other at their worst and chosen to stay anyway.

Then Mira perked up. “We should throw her a real party.”

Rumi tilted her head. “Like… a surprise one?”

“Absolutely,” Mira said, now grinning, eyes already alight with schemes. “Big. Dramatic. Unforgettable. Something soft and sparkly and chaotic. Like her.”

Rumi turned to look at Zoey, who murmured something in her sleep and curled deeper into the blanket. A quiet smile tugged at her lips. “Yeah. She deserves that.”

Bobby stood at the kitchen island in sweatpants and a loose hoodie, chewing thoughtfully on a protein bar like it had personally wronged him.

Mira slapped her palms dramatically on the marble counter. “We need your help.”

Bobby nearly choked. “What — is someone getting married?”

Rumi, leaning coolly against the fridge with arms crossed, deadpanned, “No. Zoey’s birthday.”

He blinked. “Oh. Well, that’s significantly less expensive. But still serious.”

“She turns eighteen,” Mira said, a glint of mischief lighting her face. “And we’re making it huge.”

“Like, sparkle confetti, sea turtles, and maybe a fountain made of punch,” Rumi added flatly, as if listing very reasonable groceries.

Bobby raised an eyebrow. “That sounds both adorable and like a safety hazard.”

Mira was already opening her notes app. “She loves the ocean. And turtles. And soft blue things. So we’re thinking full turtle-ocean-underwater-princess aesthetic. Aqua, turquoise, a little glitter. Think—Shellabration.”

Rumi made a face. “Please never say that again.”

Mira grinned. “No promises.”

Bobby set down his protein bar, now taking the mission fully to heart. “Alright. Ocean theme. Soft lighting. Shells? Starfish?”

“Not real ones,” Rumi said immediately. “Only the kind that sparkle.”

“And no mermaids,” Mira added. “This isn’t a fishy fairytale. This is about Zoey. Soothing, warm, floaty but grounded. Kind of like if a bubble bath was a person.”

“Or a turtle with a poetry degree,” Rumi muttered.

Bobby laughed, grabbing a notepad from the drawer — because, of course, Bobby did not believe in digital planning. “Okay, we’re thinking ambiance. What’s the location?”

“Rooftop,” Mira said without missing a beat. “But we cover it in string lights and maybe hang a fabric canopy so it feels like you’re under the waves.”

“Cushions on the floor,” Rumi added. “Blankets. Ocean-blue bean bags. And maybe I’ll make those paper jellyfish things that float from the ceiling?”

Bobby nodded like a general being briefed for a mission. “Decor handmade. Noted.”

“And a turtle cake!” Mira said triumphantly. “One of those fondant ones. I’ll commission it.”

“Don’t forget the playlist,” Rumi murmured. “Soft synth. Little lo-fi. Maybe some of Zoey’s old demos?”

Mira tilted her head thoughtfully. “And one surprise live song from us?”

Bobby raised both hands. “If it’s a concert, even a baby one, I’m gonna need a run-through and tech prep at least a day ahead.”

Rumi smirked. “It’s not a concert, it’s a hug with speakers.”

He let out a soft chuckle. “That’s dangerously on-brand.”

“I’ll make a spreadsheet,” Rumi added calmly, like that was the real cherry on top.

Mira turned to Bobby. “So… you’re in, right?”

Bobby looked between them — Mira’s manic eyes, Rumi’s quiet, focused energy — and then toward the hallway where Zoey’s door was still slightly ajar, soft lamplight peeking through.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling faintly. “For her? I’m in.”

🦋

The rooftop was transformed.

Soft aqua lights twinkled from strings draped across overhead beams, casting a dreamlike shimmer over everything. Floating paper jellyfish swayed gently in the night breeze, trailing delicate ribbons that danced like seaweed. Floor cushions in every shade of blue were scattered around low tables filled with snacks — sea salt popcorn, shell-shaped cookies, mocktails in coconut cups, and, of course, the grand centerpiece: a fondant turtle cake with sparkly eyes and a goofy smile.

A soft lofi beat played in the background. Everything smelled faintly of vanilla and summer rain.

And then, Zoey stepped onto the rooftop.

She froze in the doorway.

Her curls were still mussed from her nap, her hoodie sleeves pushed up, and her eyes blinked wide at the glowing scene before her. A few candles flickered in the gentle breeze, and a trail of teal balloons pointed straight toward her.

“…What…” she whispered, stunned.

“SURPRISE!” Mira and Rumi both yelled, throwing a handful of confetti at her with dramatic flair. Bobby stood at the side, holding a turtle-shaped balloon and trying very hard not to grin too wide.

Zoey’s jaw dropped. “You guys… you didn’t…”

“We absolutely did,” Mira said proudly, marching over and looping an arm through hers.

“And it’s not even the best part yet,” Rumi added softly, stepping in to tug Zoey further into the blue dreamscape.

Zoey was beaming already, her hands flying up to her face as she tried not to cry. “This is so much, I—”

“Don’t even start,” Mira said, grabbing a ukulele that had been chilling on a beanbag and clearing her throat. “We wrote a song.”

“A turtle song,” Rumi added flatly, already taking her seat cross-legged on a cushion, like this was a perfectly normal thing.

“You wrote a what?” Zoey choked on a laugh.

“A turtle. Song.” Mira strummed one long, dramatic chord. “Hit it, Ruru.”

Rumi rolled her eyes with the kind of deadpan patience that only meant love, and then launched right into the first verse:

🎵
She swims so slow but her heart is fast,
Got a shell so strong, but that smile don’t last
’Cause sometimes she hides, sometimes she naps,
But don’t mess with her friends or she snaps!
🎵

Mira picked up the chorus with full theatrical flair:

🎵
Turtle girl, turtle girl,
Moves at her own pace, saving the world
She’s got curls and dreams and a sketchpad sword,
Don’t need a crown — she’s already adored!
🎵

Zoey stood frozen, hands clasped over her mouth, her whole body trembling — from laughter or joy or shock, maybe all three. Her eyes were glistening.

For any outsider, the scene would’ve looked like a sappier-than-life serenade: two girls singing directly to a third under soft lights, completely focused on her, with harmonies that — okay, somehow actually worked.

But this wasn’t romance. This was family.

When they reached the final goofy chorus, Mira broke out into a little shuffle dance, still strumming, and Rumi leaned over with a piece of seaweed snack in her mouth like a microphone.

🎵
So here’s to Zoey, our turtle queen,
Eighteen now, but always serene
We love you lots, don’t make us cry—
Happy birthday, now eat that guy!
🎵

She pointed at the turtle cake.

Zoey burst out laughing so hard she snorted and nearly doubled over.

She wiped her eyes, rushing forward, and pulled both of them into the tightest hug. Mira almost dropped the ukulele.

“I love you guys so much it’s actually illegal,” Zoey whispered between breathless laughs. “That was perfect. Like, disgustingly perfect.”

Rumi smiled against her shoulder. “You deserve soft things. So you get them.”

Bobby cleared his throat gently from the side. “Can I serve the cake now, or are we doing another number?”

“Only if you sing the next one,” Mira said with a wink.

“Hard pass.”

As the evening wore on — with cake slices, sparkly drinks, chaotic party games, and a quiet rooftop slow-dance to Zoey’s favorite track — the birthday girl stayed curled between her girls, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright.

No stages. No fans. No lights. Just warmth. Family.

And turtles.

The rooftop party slowly wound down as the city stretched into the early hours. The candles had melted low, the turtle cake reduced to a grinning half-shell, and the last of the glitter-studded mocktails sat forgotten on the table. A few rogue balloons drifted across the floor, bumping gently against pillows like they too had run out of energy.

The playlist had looped back to a sleepy instrumental version of Zoey’s favorite song, and the night sky above Huntrix Tower was peppered with stars — like someone had scattered sea salt across velvet.

The girls were all tangled up on the giant cushioned lounge bed they’d dragged outside for the night.

Zoey lay in the middle, her curls a soft halo against the blanket. Her cheeks still flushed from too much sugar and too many surprises. Mira had one leg tossed lazily over Zoey’s, while Rumi lay on her other side, chin resting on her folded arms as she watched Zoey like she was still trying to make sure this moment was real.

The soft wind stirred Zoey’s hoodie strings, and she turned her head lazily to Rumi with a sleepy smile. “Thank you. Both of you. This was… it was the best day of my life.”

Rumi blinked slowly, then reached over, brushing a stray curl from Zoey’s cheek. “You made it easy,” she said simply. “Being loved by you is kind of the easiest thing in the world.”

And then, with no big lead-up — just quiet certainty — Rumi leaned in and kissed Zoey on the cheek. A small, warm press of her lips, right against the apple of her cheekbone.

Zoey’s breath caught.

She didn’t move. She just blinked, wide-eyed, suddenly glowing from somewhere behind her ribs.

And then Mira, lying half on Zoey’s lap, leaned in next. Her kiss landed just a little off-center — not quite mouth, not quite cheek — like she hadn’t aimed wrong so much as chosen somewhere in between.

“Happy birthday, sunshine,” Mira murmured against her skin.

Zoey blinked again, her entire body going perfectly still except for the faintest sparkle in her eyes — like someone had flipped a switch behind them. “You guys are gonna break me.”

“You say that like it’s hard,” Mira teased, draping an arm across Zoey’s stomach like it was hers by right.

Rumi tucked in closer, her head resting now just under Zoey’s shoulder, like she belonged there.

“No one’s breaking you,” Rumi said softly. “You’re already whole.”

For a long while, they just lay there. No need to speak. The breeze hummed against the glass railings. The soft sound of distant cars filtered up from below. Zoey’s hand found Rumi’s and held it. Mira absentmindedly traced stars on Zoey’s leg with her fingertip.

Their little afterparty cuddle pile slowly blurred into dreams — cheeks warm, hearts full, and every last edge of Zoey’s soul wrapped tight in safety.

Tonight, she wasn’t just celebrated.

She was held.

🦋

The tower felt like a dream that morning.

Light streamed in gently through the tall windows of the living floor, casting golden puddles across soft rugs and tangled limbs. Zoey was curled like a cat on one end of the couch, still in her pajama shorts, painting little turtles on Rumi’s forgotten mug with a marker that probably wasn’t food-safe. Mira was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, gently folding fruit into whipped cream. She had tried baking again — and, shockingly, it hadn’t gone terribly.

They were whispering and giggling like kids in a blanket fort. A homemade birthday brunch was planned. A playlist of Rumi’s favorite songs floated through the air, soft and low. The whole morning was stitched together with love.

“She’s gonna come out and cry,” Zoey said, spinning around on the barstool. “I bet money she’ll pretend she’s mad, but her ears will go all red.”

“She’ll mutter something like, ‘you guys are too much,’ and then accept a strawberry like it’s a truce,” Mira replied, smirking.

But the clock ticked on.

Nine-thirty. No footsteps. No sleepy greeting. No Rumi.

Then the elevator dinged — and Bobby stepped out.

His expression was calm, but his presence immediately shifted the air. Mira looked up from the bowl. Zoey sat straighter.

“Hey,” he said gently, holding up a small envelope. “She left this. For me to tell you.”

Zoey blinked. “Rumi?”

Mira’s brow furrowed. “Wait — left?”

“She’s not here?” Zoey asked, already standing.

Bobby stepped closer, tone steady but respectful. “She left early this morning. Before sunrise, I think. I got the message around five.”

He set the envelope on the counter, then added, “She’s gone to visit her mother.”

The words landed with a strange thud.

“She what?” Mira asked slowly.

Zoey tilted her head. “Isn’t… today her birthday?”

Bobby’s voice softened even more. “It is. It’s also her mom’s death anniversary.”

Silence.

Zoey blinked twice, visibly trying to process. “Both… on the same day?”

Mira gripped the counter harder. “That’s why she never wants to celebrate.”

Bobby nodded. “She said she visits every year. It’s tradition for her.”

“We would have come with her,” Zoey said quietly. “She didn’t have to go alone.”

“She knew you’d say that,” Bobby said, sighing. “But… there was a condition. From Celine.”

The temperature in the room dropped a degree.

“What condition?” Mira asked, her voice tight.

“She said Rumi had to come alone. Or not at all.”

That was it.

Zoey’s face crumpled — a hurt, confused scrunch of brows and lips pressed too tight. “But why—?”

Mira turned away, her jaw clenched so tight it trembled. Her shoulders were already tensing, fury blooming behind her eyes.

“That woman,” Mira whispered, “doesn’t get to dictate Rumi’s healing.”

“She shouldn’t even be there,” Zoey added, fists curling around her shirt. “Why is she still part of this?”

Bobby held up both hands. “Rumi didn’t tell me much. Just that she had to go. That this is something she does every year. I think… maybe it’s something she needs to do on her own.”

“She’s eighteen today,” Zoey said quietly. “And instead of waking up to cake and hugs and dumb songs, she’s with Celine. At a grave. Alone.”

“She doesn’t have to be alone,” Mira snapped, her voice suddenly sharp. “She chooses to be. Because that woman poisoned her into thinking pain is more real than joy.”

Bobby didn’t try to calm her down — not exactly. He simply said, “She’ll come back. And we’ll still be here. We’ll still love her, birthday or not.”

Zoey nodded, tears welling now. “Of course we will. We always will.”

Mira said nothing — just turned toward the living room and began silently folding up the tablecloth, her movements deliberate. Her hands shook, but she didn’t let a single tear fall.

They would wait.

And when Rumi came home — however late, however quiet — she would find the fruit still chilled, the cake still waiting, and two girls who would wrap her up like armor and never let her forget how deeply she was loved.

🦋

It was the night before her birthday, and the tower had the soft hush of quiet celebration not yet begun.

Fairy lights had already been half-strung across the living room. Zoey was humming to herself in the kitchen, trying to ice a cake without licking her fingers. Mira was mock-arguing with Bobby over what playlist best matched “birthday brunch vibes.” And Rumi?

Rumi sat in her room with her phone glowing in her hand, her expression unreadable.

The message had come in a few minutes ago. Simple. Cold.

From: Celine
“You’re welcome to come home, Rumi. But the others and their drama are not.
I expect you at the grave site by sunrise. We’ll talk there.”

No “Happy Birthday.”

No “How are you?”

Just a demand, sharp and sterile, wrapped in a reminder that this day wasn’t hers alone.

Her mother had died on the day Rumi was born. She never had birthdays — not really. Just memorials with fresh flowers and a quiet, dutiful daughter placing them while Celine stood behind her like a statue, arms crossed, grief sharp as glass.

For years, it had been ritual.

Go. Kneel. Stay silent. Obey.

But this year… it felt different.

This year, Rumi had family now. Real family. Not bound by blood but by warmth, laughter, chaos, late-night ramen and quiet shoulder hugs when the world got too loud. And yet, Celine’s message had sent a familiar cold creeping back into her chest.

She read it again.

And again.

A knock came at her door — Zoey’s soft voice: “Ru? You hungry?”

Rumi locked her phone and answered without turning around. “In a bit.”

“Okay!” Zoey chirped. “I’m gonna test the frosting, but I promise to leave some!”

Silence fell again.

Rumi looked out the window. The mountains were barely visible under the thick clouds, but she could feel them. The weight of that place. Of memory.

She didn’t want to lie to Mira or Zoey. But she knew they would never let her go alone — not to Celine, not like this. And Celine had made herself clear.

So that night, quietly, Rumi drafted a short message to Bobby.

“I’ll be gone in the morning. Visiting my mom’s grave with Celine. It’s… tradition.
Please don’t tell the others until after. I’ll be back in the evening.”

Not a real explanation.

Just what she had to give.

Then she set her phone face-down on her desk, turned off the lights, and climbed into bed beside the folded hoodie Zoey had decorated with turtle stickers and Mira’s barely-legible birthday card from last year tucked into the sleeve.

And despite the warm comfort waiting just outside her door, Rumi drifted to sleep with the cold weight of memory pressing against her chest — a silent promise already made.

Tomorrow, she would face it alone.
Just one more time.

Chapter Text

The clock on the wall ticked with impossible softness.

It was nearly midnight.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sky hung heavy with clouds, moonlight filtering through in thin streaks. The lights of the city blinked below like a sea of fireflies, too far away to touch — and too distant to comfort.

Mira sat curled in one corner of the couch, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around a throw pillow she hadn’t stopped squeezing in the past hour. Her phone sat face-up on the coffee table. No new messages.

Zoey sat beside her, one leg tucked beneath her, the other bouncing restlessly. Her fingers had started to go numb from how tightly she was holding Rumi’s hoodie — the one Rumi had left behind on the coat rack. She’d pulled it down an hour ago and hadn’t let go since.

Neither of them spoke. Not for a while.

“She’s okay,” Zoey whispered eventually, voice thin and soft. “Right?”

Mira didn’t answer immediately. She just closed her eyes and leaned her head back, jaw tight. When she finally spoke, her voice was steadier than she felt. “Yeah. She’s okay. It’s just…”

“She shouldn’t be alone.” Zoey’s voice trembled.

Mira nodded slowly, then uncrossed her arms to reach out, pulling Zoey in by the sleeve. “I know. I know.”

They had both known where Rumi had gone. Bobby had told them, earlier that morning, apologetic but not alarmed. She’s visiting her mom’s grave, he’d said. She goes every year. It’s tradition. Celine asked that she go alone.

But still.

That didn’t make it easier. It didn’t make the ache in their chests any less sharp. Because alone or not — it was her birthday. Her eighteenth birthday.

And they would’ve gone with her.

Even if they had to wait at the bottom of the damn mountain. Even if Rumi didn’t want to speak. Even if all they could do was sit in silence while she mourned. That would’ve been enough.

But she hadn’t let them.

“She probably thought she was protecting us,” Mira said at one point, staring out at the lights below.

Zoey frowned. “From what?”

“From her,” Mira bit out. “From that place. From Celine. From… all of it.”

There was venom in her tone now — the kind Mira only used when something hurt too much to hold quietly. Zoey didn’t answer. She just leaned her head on Mira’s shoulder, silent and hurting.

And then — just as the clock struck 11:24 — the sound of the front door turning reached them.

Both girls bolted upright.

Footsteps. Soft ones. Careful.

Then the door creaked open fully, and a familiar figure stepped inside.

Rumi.

She looked like a ghost of herself. Not in the monstrous way, not in fear — but in fatigue, in emotional unraveling. Her braid was crooked and beginning to come undone, strands of hair stuck to her cheeks from mountain wind and maybe sweat. Her hoodie was zipped all the way up to her chin, too warm for the room, her shoulders hunched beneath it like she was trying to disappear inside it.

She didn’t expect them to be waiting. That much was obvious by the startled look in her eyes.

“…You’re still up,” she said.

Zoey was the first to move.

She scrambled from the couch and rushed to her, Mira just half a step behind.

“Are you okay?” Zoey asked, her voice already wobbling. “Did you walk back? We were so—”

“I’m fine,” Rumi said gently, cutting her off. But the words were paper thin.

Mira was already at her side, eyes scanning her face. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”

Rumi gave a small, humorless laugh. “It wasn’t hell. Just tradition.”

Then, softer, almost ashamed, “I visit her every year. It’s my way of remembering… her. Of remembering that she gave me life, even if she didn’t get to live much of hers.”

Zoey’s eyes glistened. “You could’ve told us.”

“I didn’t want you to come,” Rumi whispered, voice catching. “Not because I didn’t want you there. I just… Celine said I had to come alone or not at all. I didn’t want you near her.”

Mira’s jaw clenched at the name. “She’s not your keeper anymore.”

“I know.” Rumi glanced down. “But it’s still where my mom is.”

The silence was heavy for a moment.

Then Zoey stepped in and gently took Rumi’s hand. “You don’t have to carry it by yourself. Not anymore.”

Rumi’s eyes glistened, the burn behind them obvious. Her voice shook. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare us,” Mira said. “You just… left us behind. And we didn’t want that. Not today. Not ever.”

Rumi opened her mouth — and closed it again.

She looked small in the soft light of the hallway. Small, and tired, and cracked around the edges. But she was there. She came home.

Mira glanced at her phone again and then held it up. “You’ve got thirty-six minutes left.”

“Of what?”

“Your birthday,” Zoey whispered, stepping closer, still holding her hand.

Rumi blinked slowly. “I don’t celebrate.”

“We know,” Mira said. “But we’ve got cake. Doesn’t have to be birthday cake. Just… welcome home cake.”

Rumi finally broke. Her breath caught in her throat and tears welled without resistance this time.

“That would be nice,” she whispered.

And just like that, the three of them folded into each other. Mira’s arm around Rumi’s waist. Zoey pressing her face against Rumi’s shoulder, hoodie and all. No confetti. No candles.

Just arms.

Warm, steady, unshakable.

And home.

The lights in the kitchen were low and golden, the only sound the quiet hum of the fridge and the soft clink of forks against porcelain plates. The girls had abandoned formality entirely — Zoey sat cross-legged on the counter, Mira was perched sideways on a stool, and Rumi had one socked foot curled beneath her as she leaned on the island, cheeks still damp from earlier tears, but now flushed with something brighter.

The cake wasn’t fancy. No candles. Just a simple vanilla chiffon with whipped cream and strawberry slices — something Zoey had helped Mira half-frost while nearly crying into the piping bag earlier that evening. But now, as Rumi took another bite and made a tiny, involuntary mmm, it tasted like warmth. Like relief. Like home.

Zoey nudged Rumi’s shoulder. “So? Worth coming home for?”

Rumi nodded slowly, swallowing her bite. “Definitely.”

Mira grinned and leaned across the counter. “Well, we were gonna do a dramatic cake reveal, but you ruined it by coming back all late and tragic.”

Rumi chuckled. “Sorry for ruining your plans with my trauma.”

Zoey gasped dramatically. “How dare you.”

The laughter that followed was quiet but real. Honest. The tension from earlier still clung in the air, but it had softened now — like mist beginning to lift after a long, stormy night.

Then, just as Rumi took another bite, she paused mid-chew, glanced at the wall clock, and cleared her throat.

“What?” Mira said, immediately suspicious.

Rumi looked up at both of them, eyes glinting — tired, but alight. “It’s 12:01.”

Zoey blinked. “Yeah?”

“I have something to tell you,” she said, quietly.

Both girls perked up.

Rumi glanced at the clock. “Technically, I’m supposed to wait until morning. But it’s the next day now. It counts.”

Zoey was already bouncing. “Tell us, tell us!”

“Bobby will say more officially tomorrow,” Rumi began, voice a little shaky from the emotional weight of the day still lingering, “but I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

She looked up at them, tired eyes still shining.

“We’re going on tour.”

For a heartbeat, nothing.

Then Mira sat up straight. “Wait, what?”

“A real one?” Zoey breathed.

“A world tour,” Rumi confirmed with a small, crooked smile. “Not huge — five or six countries to start. Just select cities. But it’s real. Starts in two months.”

Zoey shrieked, launching herself across the counter to hug Rumi, nearly knocking over the rest of the cake in the process.

Mira blinked in shock. “How? I thought— I mean, with the demon situation—”

Rumi leaned back slightly, brushing a few crumbs off her lap. “Yeah. That’s the thing.”

Her voice lowered slightly, steady and sure now.

“The demons… they don’t stay in one place. They follow the hunters. Or maybe the energy we give off. It’s not random. Wherever we go, they’ll be there eventually.”

Zoey’s brows furrowed. “So we’re dragging the danger with us?”

“Not quite,” Rumi said. “Celine… she always knew this might happen. That we might need to travel. To move, to perform, to grow. And fight. So she made sure that we’d have what we need — no matter where we go.”

Mira crossed her arms, her frown thoughtful. “You mean like weapons?”

“Everything,” Rumi nodded. “Storage locations. Safe houses. Gear drop points. Backup IDs, if it came to that. It’s not just our music that’s been built up over time. The infrastructure for the other side of our lives — it’s already there. It always was. Even before she let us know about it.”

Zoey was still holding her, a little too tightly. “So… we’ll be fighting. Even while we tour?”

“Most likely, yeah,” Rumi said softly. “But we’ll train. We’ll prepare. And we’ll have each other.”

Mira exhaled. “Only us?”

“Only us,” Rumi confirmed. “No other teams. No reinforcements. Just us three.”

Zoey swallowed. “That’s kinda terrifying.”

Rumi gave her a small smile. “Yeah. But we’ve already survived worse.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Mira reached for the cake knife again. “Okay. Then we definitely need more sugar if we’re going to fight demons across time zones.”

Zoey pulled back just enough to whisper, “Does this mean I get to pick out new stage costumes for international monster slaying?”

“Yes,” Rumi laughed.

“Excellent.”

Mira served another slice onto Rumi’s plate. “One piece for your birthday. One for the tour. One for surviving Celine. And one because you came home.”

Rumi blinked fast, then whispered, “Thank you.”

And this time, when she reached out for their hands under the counter, they didn’t just squeeze back.

They held on.

🦋

They’d all been busy — tour planning, rehearsals, press meetings. On the surface, everything was moving smoothly. But Mira had a sharp eye, and it wasn’t hard to notice that something in Rumi had shifted since her birthday.

She still trained with precision. Still spoke with the same clipped, careful words. Still showed up for everything without complaint. But her silences had grown longer. Her gaze more distant. Her shoulders, once carried high with quiet pride, now curled inward like she was bracing for impact.

And then there were the small things. Her braid often loose, uneven. Her steps slower in the mornings. Her laugh quieter, rarer. And that constant, absent way she pressed her fingertips into her temples when no one was watching — except Mira always was.

It was Zoey who first voiced it.

They were sprawled across the couch, late evening light spilling through the wide windows. Zoey had her head on Mira’s thigh, lazily sketching something on her tablet. Rumi sat near the far edge, curled up with her knees tucked under her chin, eyes unfocused on the muted television.

“She’s been off,” Zoey murmured, eyes still on her screen.

Mira hummed low in agreement. “Yeah.”

They let a few minutes pass, the silence gentle but charged.

Finally, Mira shifted upright and turned to Rumi. “Okay. Spill.”

Rumi blinked, like waking from a long drift. “What?”

“You’ve been weird,” Zoey said gently. “Not bad-weird. Just… different.”

Mira leaned forward. “You’re hurting, Rumi. More than usual.”

Rumi hesitated, eyes flicking between them. And then, softly:
“I don’t sleep.”

Zoey sat up a little straighter. Mira’s heart clenched.

Rumi picked at the drawstring of her hoodie, voice quiet but steady. “I try. I really do. But I just lie there. The second it gets dark, it starts. The dreams… they’re not always the same, but they always feel like they’re waiting for me. Like something’s behind the door and I keep locking it, but it finds its way in anyway.”

“Have you talked to Valerie?” Mira asked immediately, leaning closer.

Rumi shook her head. “Not yet. I don’t even know where to start. I feel like if I open my mouth, it’ll all come out too fast. Too much. And I’m just so tired, Mira.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Mira didn’t say anything at first. She just opened her arms.

“Come here,” she said gently. “Don’t think. Just come here.”

Rumi hesitated for a moment — pride or habit or maybe just the exhaustion — but then she let out a breath and moved, too drained to resist. She sat down beside Mira, back stiff, as if bracing for the weight of her own vulnerability.

Mira didn’t give her the chance to change her mind. She tugged Rumi gently sideways until her head rested in Mira’s lap.

“There we go,” she whispered, brushing stray hairs from Rumi’s forehead. “Let me help.”

Rumi blinked up at her, eyes red-rimmed but dry, and Mira began working her fingers through her scalp — slow, long movements, searching for tension like she was smoothing it out strand by strand. Every so often she paused to press just behind Rumi’s ears, or at her temples, firm enough to pull the pain away.

She could feel it — the tiny shifts. Rumi’s body slowly unlocking, inch by inch. Her breathing deepening. Her eyes fluttering shut. Mira looked down and saw her finally relaxing, face softening under the touch, lips parted slightly like sleep might actually take her if it dared.

A quiet movement made her glance up.

Zoey had turned, now sitting cross-legged in front of them, her tablet forgotten. Her eyes met Mira’s, warm and tired, but full of that same quiet love they’d always had for each other.

She smiled. Just a little.

“She’s safe,” she whispered.

Mira nodded, brushing a thumb across Rumi’s temple. “Yeah,” she murmured. “She’s safe.”

And for that moment, even with the storm still lingering at the edges of Rumi’s soul, it was enough.

🦋

It started in silence.

That peculiar kind of dream-silence where everything should make noise — footsteps, breath, heartbeat — but doesn’t. Rumi stood barefoot on the old hardwood of the training room she hadn’t stepped into in years, but knew like a scar. Polished floors. Mirrors that stretched endlessly, reflecting versions of herself she didn’t recognize. Fluorescent lights that buzzed above, though in the dream they didn’t buzz at all. Just glared.

Rumi stood alone in the training room.

Wooden floors beneath her bare feet. The smell of incense and sweat. Shadows gathering in the corners like watching eyes. She wasn’t sure how old she was here — she felt small and frightened, but the wooden sword in her hand was full-sized. Heavy. Her arms ached.

Celine stood a few feet away, posture immaculate, her arms crossed behind her back like always — like judgment itself.

“You know why I brought you here.”

Rumi’s lips moved, but no sound came out. Her throat was raw already.

“You were too slow again,” Celine said calmly. “Too weak. Too emotional. Always a liability.”

“I tried—” Rumi choked.

“No. You failed. Again.”

The lights above them flickered — not real lights, but the kind of sharp flashes that came right before pain.

Suddenly she was on the mat. Knees burning. Palms red from impact.

“You don’t move like a huntress,” Celine’s voice cut through the air. “You flinch. You feel. That’s not strength. That’s shame.”

Rumi tried to speak, but Celine was already beside her, crouching, grabbing her chin too hard and tilting her face up.

“This is why your mother died. Because of you.”

Rumi shook her head, panic rising like acid. “No. No—”

“She was strong. And she loved you. Look where that got her. Buried in the cold while her pathetic child choked on grief.”

“No—please—”

“You should have died instead,” Celine whispered, and her voice wasn’t just outside — it was inside Rumi’s head now, echoing in all directions, over and over again.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

Rumi’s chest tightened. She looked down, trying to breathe, but even that didn’t sound in the dream.

“Again,” Celine repeated.

And suddenly it looped — the same strike, the same stumble, the same words. Over and over. She fell. She bled. She apologized. And Celine never changed.

Punishments came in flashes. A slap to the face that left her disoriented. Hours kneeling on rice that left her in pain. Isolation in a cold room that left her in loneliness. A blade too close to skin for “discipline.” Shame poured down on her in waves — shame for every emotion, every fear, every flicker of doubt, every failure.

“Your faults and fears must never be seen,” Celine hissed. “You are not allowed to break. Not for them. Not even for yourself.”

The mantra repeated like a metronome. 'Your faults and fears must never be seen. Your faults and fears must never be seen.'

But even in the nightmare, Rumi wanted to scream. She wanted out.

She dropped the sword. Turned. Ran.

Door after door, she sprinted down long halls that warped and stretched, the mirrors now reflecting twisted versions of her face — younger, older, always cracked, always haunted.

She slammed a door behind her.

Turned—

And found Celine standing in front of her again, composed, hands behind her back.

“You think you’re free now?” she said, voice low and gleaming with condescension. “You think just because you left, it’s over? Oh, little one.”

Rumi backed away, heart thundering. “Stay away from me.”

“But I never left. I live in the spaces between your thoughts. I live in your rules. In your spine. In every breath you don’t let yourself take.”

Rumi sobbed, hands at her ears, but Celine’s voice curled around her like smoke.

“You’re not you without me. You are what I built. A hollow thing. A tool. A weapon.”

“No,” Rumi whispered.

“Yes,” Celine said, stepping closer, her presence towering, inevitable. “Your entire existence was a fault. And you know it.”

The dream fractured.

The mirrors shattered around her, exploding inward. A thousand versions of herself screaming — child, teen, now — and all of them hurting, bleeding, failing.

Rumi turned, sprinting toward the light at the end of the hall, grasping for an escape, lungs aching—

She surged upward with a strangled cry — fists clenched, chest heaving, like she was ready to claw her way out of a grave.

CRACK.

Her forehead slammed hard into something solid. A sharp jolt shot through her skull, pain flaring white behind her eyes.

“Shit—!” Mira gasped, jerking back as her own head snapped with the impact. The room spun. Stars burst behind her eyes like shrapnel.

Rumi choked on air — arms flailing for balance as her vision reeled — and then collapsed right back down, landing sideways across Mira’s lap with a low, broken sound. Her body trembled violently.

“Rumi—? Rumi, hey—” Mira blinked hard, shaking off the ringing in her skull as she bent forward. “It’s me. It’s okay. You’re okay—”

But Rumi wasn’t hearing her.

She was gasping. Panicking. Breath hitching hard and fast, like it couldn’t find a way through her ribs. Her arms had gone rigid, her fingers clenching the blanket as her body curled in on itself — small, too small — until her face pressed tight against Mira’s stomach.

Her voice came out raw and cracked: “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

Mira froze.

Zoey had already been sitting close, one knee drawn up under her chin, half-dozing with her tablet dimmed in her lap. The second Rumi cried out, she was there — shifting, blinking wide and scared, crawling across the couch in an instant.

“What happened? What’s—Rumi?” Her voice caught. “Is she dreaming again?”

Mira reached down, both hands now buried in Rumi’s hair, gentle and steady despite the dull throb still radiating through her temple.

“It was a nightmare,” she said quietly. “A bad one.”

Rumi’s fingers curled tighter into Mira’s sweatshirt. Her whole body shook like she’d been dropped in ice water. She didn’t look up — couldn’t. Her face stayed buried in Mira’s lap, pressed against the soft cotton of her shirt like she was trying to disappear into it, trying to breathe through it, but failing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again. “Did I hurt you?“

Mira leaned over her, lips brushing Rumi’s hairline, voice low but firm. “It’s okay. We’re here. Right here. You‘re not alone.”

Rumi gave a choked sound — not quite a sob, but too close to mistake.

Zoey crawled closer, placing one hand gently on Rumi’s back, the other hovering at her side like she didn’t know where to touch without hurting her. “We’re okay. I promise. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

But Rumi couldn’t answer. She just stayed there, curled up in Mira’s lap like it was the last safe place in the world, breath still ragged, shoulders still trembling beneath the thin blanket.

Mira didn’t try to make her talk. Didn’t ask what she’d seen.

She just ran her fingers through Rumi’s hair, slow and grounding, again and again. “You’re safe,” she murmured. “You’re safe. You’re not there. You’re home.”

And slowly — so slowly — Rumi’s breathing began to change. Still shaky. Still uneven. But the edges dulled. The panic settled, like a wave finally starting to pull back from the shore.

Zoey adjusted so she was close enough to lean in, her hand now resting steady against Rumi’s spine. Her brow was furrowed, voice soft. “Should we wake Valerie next time this happens?”

Mira didn’t look up. “Maybe.”

But right now, they just held her.

Held her through the aftershocks. Through the guilt. Through the memory of a nightmare that still lingered in the corners of the room.

And even if Rumi didn’t believe it yet —

They weren’t going anywhere.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the sunlight slanted through the apartment windows in soft gold streaks, dust motes spinning in the quiet like slow music. The living room was still — mostly.

Rumi sat curled up on the couch, mug in hand, the steam long gone cold. Her eyes were fixed on the skyline beyond the glass, shoulders hunched slightly, braid undone and messy. She hadn’t said much since she woke.

Zoey was the one who broke the silence.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked gently, perched on the opposite armrest with her knees drawn in, fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of her sweatshirt. “With us? Or with… Valerie?”

Rumi didn’t look at her. Didn’t flinch. But her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Neither,” she said.

There was no anger in it. No sharpness. Just a quiet, drained certainty.

Zoey blinked, then scooted forward a little. “Okay,” she said. Then paused. “But… Rumi, you know we love you, right?”

That made Rumi turn, just slightly. Her eyes flicked up, startled.

Zoey nodded. “You know that. Right?”

Rumi hesitated. Then, softly: “Yeah.”

Zoey exhaled. “Then not speaking to anyone isn’t an option.”

Rumi blinked fast. Looked away.

“I get it,” Zoey added. “Really. I do. But bottling it up until it breaks out in nightmares that nearly knock Mira out is not a long-term strategy.”

“I didn’t mean to hit her,” Rumi muttered.

“I know,” Mira said from the kitchen, voice warm and laced with wry affection. She walked over, holding her own coffee, a bruise now faintly blooming at her temple. “And you did it with impressive force. I’m just saying, next time scream first, surge upward second.”

That coaxed the tiniest flicker of a smile from Rumi — barely there, but it counted.

Mira sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

“If you don’t want to talk to us,” she said carefully, “then talk to Valerie. Alone. Just her. No pressure. But you have to talk to someone.”

Rumi’s fingers tightened around her mug. She didn’t answer right away.

But then: “Okay.”

It was quiet. A threadbare whisper.

But it was yes.

Mira reached out and gently brushed a knuckle along Rumi’s braidless hair. “Good.”

Then she stood up and walked toward the hallway, pulling her phone from her hoodie pocket.

She tapped Valerie’s name without hesitation. It rang once. Twice.

Then: “Mira? Is everything okay?”

Mira exhaled. “She had a nightmare last night. Bad one. Woke up screaming. Disoriented. Had a panic attack right after.”

A pause.

Then Valerie’s voice, calm but alert: “She’s talking?”

“She said she doesn’t want to talk to us about it. But she agreed to speak with you. Alone.”

Another beat of silence.

Then: “I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Thanks,” Mira said quietly.

Before Valerie could hang up, Mira added, “She thinks she’s protecting us. From what she saw. From what happened. You’ll… be gentle with her, right?”

Valerie’s voice softened. “Of course. I won’t make her explain everything. This isn’t a purge. It’s a start.”

Mira closed her eyes, nodded once, then ended the call.

🦋

Valerie didn’t speak right away when she arrived. She never did.

She just sat down in the armchair across from the couch where Rumi was curled, blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders, legs folded beneath her. The morning light had shifted to something softer now, the apartment quiet — Mira and Zoey had stepped out to give them space.

Valerie waited.

Rumi stared down at her hands, picking at a thread in the blanket.

Eventually, she broke the silence. “It’s not a big deal.”

Valerie raised a brow, but said nothing.

“I’ve just… been having more nightmares than usual.”

Valerie gave a slow nod. “More than usual is still a lot, for you.”

Rumi shrugged. “It’s not that bad.”

Her voice was even, rehearsed — the kind of answer that sounded like a shield. Polished and hollow.

But Valerie had seen it before. The way Rumi curled inward, eyes always half a second away from somewhere far away. She didn’t push. She just asked, gently:

“Are you afraid to sleep?”

Rumi’s jaw tensed.

A beat passed.

Then: “Yeah.”

The word slipped out like it surprised her.

Valerie sat back slightly, voice warm but steady. “Do you know what started this? Or when it got worse?”

Rumi’s fingers stilled on the blanket.

“…My birthday.”

Another pause.

Valerie nodded again. She already knew what that meant — what day it was, what it marked. But still, softly:

“Did something happen?”

Rumi’s face didn’t change. Not visibly. But something about the way her eyes lowered — not avoiding, but bracing — said enough.

“Just… Celine,” she said quietly.

Not an event. Not a memory.

A person. A presence.

And that was enough.

Valerie’s breath was steady, but her heart ached behind her calm. She knew — had always known — that what Rumi had gone through wasn’t training. That it wasn’t discipline or preparation or any of the things Celine liked to wrap her cruelty in.

It was conditioning. It was control. It was abuse, hidden in structure and rules and justifications.

And Rumi had survived it with so much grace it almost disguised the damage.

Almost.

But Valerie didn’t say any of that.

Not yet.

“Do you want to talk about her?” she asked gently.

Rumi shook her head, small and fast. “No.”

Her voice cracked a little this time. Not a sob. Just something thin around the edges.

“I just…” she exhaled, clutching the blanket tighter around her. “I just want to sleep. Just one night. Without waking up in panic. Without—” she stopped herself, jaw clenching. “Without hearing voices telling me I’m wrong. Every time. No matter what I do.”

Valerie’s voice was softer than ever now. “You know those voices aren’t yours. Not really.”

“I know,” Rumi said, a little too fast. “I do. I know I’m not wrong. Not anymore. But my dreams— they don’t care. They twist everything. It’s like…” She swallowed. “Like Celine’s still there. Still rewiring me.”

Valerie nodded slowly. “That’s because healing isn’t a straight line.”

Rumi looked up, eyes glassy but not falling. Not yet.

“It’s not?” she asked, like she almost wished it were.

“No,” Valerie said gently. “It’s not a straight road. It’s back and forth. Quiet, then chaos. Sometimes you wake up feeling free. And the next night you can’t sleep at all. That doesn’t mean you’re failing. It just means you’re still moving. Still healing.”

Rumi blinked fast. Her hands didn’t stop trembling, not fully. But she didn’t look away.

Valerie leaned forward a little, elbows on her knees. “It doesn’t have to be all at once. You don’t have to tell me everything right now. But I want to help. And I can — we can — if you let us.”

Rumi didn’t answer. But something shifted in her face.

Not an opening.

But a crack.

A place where light might slip in later.

Valerie smiled just enough to be real. “For now,” she said, “let’s start with helping you sleep. No loops. No shame. No voices but your own.”

And Rumi, eyes down again, whispered, “Okay.”

🦋

The airport was chaos.

Screaming fans. Camera flashes. Posters with their faces on them in languages they didn’t speak yet.

It should’ve been terrifying.

It wasn’t.

It was electric.

Their first world tour leg landed them in Tokyo, and the second they stepped onto the stage — Zoey’s voice cutting clean through the intro, Mira’s boots stomping in rhythm like thunder, Rumi’s blade-like precision anchoring every move — they knew.

They weren’t becoming idols.

They were.

The concert was a hit. A massive hit.

Bobby cried after. Like, actually cried. Zoey filmed it.

They barely slept between shows, but it didn’t matter. Because the exhaustion came with adrenaline. With hotel room floor noodles at 2 a.m. With Mira’s playlist always too loud in shared earbuds. With Rumi watching them from a distance, sometimes smiling, sometimes silent.

Valerie kept checking in. Rumi said she was fine.

She wasn’t, but she said it so well.

The more Valerie tried to help, the more Rumi smoothed over the cracks. She learned how to lie in the right tone — quiet, composed, just enough eye contact. She learned how to disappear in plain sight, but at the same time she accepted the help given. Did all the moves and took all the medicines to help.

And Mira and Zoey?

They didn’t stop loving her.

But they also started leaning on each other.

At first it was nothing.

A lingering hand on the shoulder.

A too-long laugh during vocal warmups.

A shared hotel bed in a room with two doubles. Mira’s knee brushing Zoey’s under the covers.

And Rumi — from the other bed, headphones in — saw them.

Smiling. Soft.

She smiled too.

It didn’t hurt. Not yet.

They were winning awards now.

Major ones.

A KDA collab that hit number one in seventeen countries. A full South America leg that sold out in under a week. Custom tour jackets designed by Zoey and Mira, stitched with the name of every city they’d fought in, sung in, bled in. A limited Japanese vinyl pressing with fan-drawn cover art and liner notes handwritten in three languages.

They weren’t just idols.

They were becoming myth.

But with legacy came weight.

And that weight began to crack them open.

It started small. Missed meals. Shorter tempers.

Then: Mira snapped at Bobby mid-rehearsal, voice sharp enough to silence the entire crew.

Then: Zoey burst into tears during a live mic check and had to leave the stage.

Then: Rumi vanished at a red carpet event — one second beside them, the next completely gone. No one found her for forty minutes.

By the time she came back, she looked like nothing had happened. She even smiled. But her braid was uneven, her knuckles red, and her eyes didn’t meet theirs.

Valerie had seen enough.

“They need more than management,” she told Bobby after that night. “We can’t tour over open wounds.”

Bobby agreed. Which was how the mandatory breaks started again.

Rotating therapy sessions. Movement classes without cameras. Vocal rest days, off-grid weekends, scheduled media blackouts.

And it worked.

For most of them.

Zoey and Mira leaned into it. They started going to bathhouses after long training days — quiet, minimalist ones tucked into mountainsides or rooftop ones that overlooked foreign cities like stars. They always invited Rumi.

She always said no.

She had work to do.

And she did do it.

She trained harder. Slept less. Pushed herself further.

“We (the barrier) are stronger now,” she told Valerie once. “The concerts are longer. There’ve been fewer slips. The fans are happier. We’re safer.” (The demons came less.)

“But at what cost?” Valerie asked gently.

Rumi didn’t answer. Just adjusted her laces and said, “I did it right this time.”

She believed that.

She needed to believe that.

Because it made the exhaustion feel earned. Because if it hurt, that meant she was doing it well enough. Because if she slowed down—

Everything might fall apart.

Meanwhile, Mira and Zoey…

They got quieter with each other.

Closer.

What started as incidental became habitual — Mira holding Zoey’s hand backstage, Zoey leaning into her shoulder during interviews, quiet kisses exchanged behind Bobby’s clipboard when he wasn’t paying attention.

It wasn’t a secret.

But it wasn’t spoken aloud either.

They never meant to leave Rumi behind.

They always asked.

Always waited a beat for her to join them — in the van, in the bathhouse, at the afterparty.

And Rumi always smiled.

And always said no.

They were still a trio on stage.

Still in sync, still undeniable, still powerful.

But off-stage, Rumi began to drift.

Started skipping Valerie’s calls. Ducking out early. Avoiding small touch.

Even Zoey’s hugs — once second-nature — now made her flinch if they came too fast. If they came at all.

Valerie didn’t push.

She just started writing Rumi’s name in her notes under a different column.

Not “client.”

Not “idol.”

Just: unreachable, but still watching.

Because Valerie knew.

Rumi hadn’t shut down completely.

She still noticed when Mira’s hand found Zoey’s in the greenroom.

Still noticed the way they shared earphones during long drives and fell asleep with foreheads touching in cramped dressing rooms.

And when she noticed, she smiled.

Always, she smiled.

Even when the ache beneath that smile was sharp and precise.

Even when it stung like a warning.

🦋

The tour had ended in firelight and screaming fans.

Their third world tour.

Their biggest yet.

The crowd in Buenos Aires had roared so loud Rumi felt it in her ribs. Mira had torn her knee strap mid-song and finished the set anyway, teeth gritted and shining. Zoey had cried through the final chorus, voice raw and beautiful.

Backstage, they held each other in a circle. Just the three of them.

No cameras.

No words.

Just arms and sweat and the hum of something sacred.

That night, they celebrated in a high-rise suite overlooking the city — too many floors up, windows open to the warm wind, the bottle already uncorked when Rumi stepped inside.

Zoey pulled her in almost immediately. “Please don’t say no this time.”

And Mira, flushed from dancing, eyes soft with something vulnerable and open, added, “One night, Rumi. That’s all.”

So Rumi stayed.

She drank.

She smiled, even when her heart clenched like it always did when they laughed like that — like gravity didn’t apply to them.

They sprawled across the plush rug, too many pillows under their backs, music low now. Zoey half asleep in Mira’s lap. Rumi, cross-legged beside them, one hand still around a half-full glass.

The city lights blinked beyond the window.

Then, in a quiet lull — Mira looked at her.

Eyes glassy. Voice unsteady with wine and years of too-much-held-in.

“Hey,” she said.

Rumi looked back.

Mira tilted her head. “You ever think about it?”

“About what?”

“Being with us.” Her words slurred just slightly. “Like—really being with us.”

Zoey stirred but didn’t open her eyes. She mumbled, “There’s room. Always was.”

Rumi’s heart stopped.

Just for a moment.

Her lips parted.

She wanted to say yes.

God, she wanted to.

Instead—

“I can’t,” she whispered.

The air shifted.

Mira sat up, just slightly. “Why not?”

Rumi looked down into her drink.

She could feel it again — that shadow curling like smoke behind her ribs. That voice.

Celine.

'They would be devastated, Celine whispered. You know that, don’t you? If they loved you — truly loved you — and then lost you?'

Rumi’s grip tightened around her glass.

'The barrier will banish everything unclean', Celine went on, calm and ruthless. 'Every demon. Every threat. Every fracture in the circle. Including you.

You know what you carry.

You know what you are.'

“Rumi…” Mira’s voice was soft, but close now.

But she wasn’t hearing Mira anymore.

She was hearing her.

'They wouldn’t forgive you. Not really. Not if they knew. If they understood what it would cost.

They couldn’t love you and still do what they were meant to do.

And you — you would make them choose. You would ruin it all.'

Rumi’s throat closed.

She thought of the Honmoon — the golden vision they fought for, sang for, bled for. A world rid of monsters. Of suffering. A place where no child would grow up the way she did. Where love could be soft and safe and free.

'They’ll never reach it if they know it means losing you.'

So she made the choice for them.

She looked up — into Mira’s eyes, which were bright and tired and full of something she didn’t think she deserved.

“I do think about it,” Rumi said.

Mira didn’t breathe.

“But I can’t be with you. Not in that way.” Her voice was soft. Steady. The kind of steady that required teeth marks in her tongue.

Zoey’s hand reached out in the space between them. “Why not?”

Rumi smiled — the kind of smile that hurt to wear.

“Because I’d make you choose,” she said. “And I won’t do that to you.”

Mira shook her head. “We’d choose you.”

Rumi knew that, feared it even.

Instead of answering she leaned over, gently placed her glass down, and said, “Get some sleep. You’ll feel this in the morning.”

She stood, her body still loose from the wine but her heart tighter than ever.

Behind her, Mira’s voice trembled, “We love you.”

Rumi didn’t answer.

Because Celine had already answered for her.

🦋

The suite door clicked shut behind her.

Silence settled.

Zoey sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand, the haze of wine not quite enough to dull the sharp ache in her chest.

“She wanted to say yes,” she whispered.

Mira didn’t move.

Zoey turned toward her, voice smaller now. “Didn’t she?”

Mira stared at the empty glass in front of her. “Yeah,” she said. “She did.”

Neither of them cried. Not yet. They were too used to this: Rumi holding back. Rumi carrying too much. Rumi building walls between them with hands that still shook when they thought she wasn’t looking.

But something had cracked tonight.

Something deeper than before.

Because this wasn’t just distance.

This was Rumi saying, 'You can’t love me. I won’t let you.'

And Mira — exhausted, wine-warm, and stretched too thin over too many years of trying — felt something in her chest splinter.

“It’s not fair,” she said, voice low.

Zoey’s brows knit. “What isn’t?”

“That she protects us from herself. Like we couldn’t survive the truth of her. Like love would break us more than the demons ever could.”

Zoey didn’t answer.

Because she was thinking the same thing.

Suddenly the Honmoon shifted.

Not with sound, but with sensation — a low, ancient pressure that rippled through the floor and curled along their spines. It thrummed like something old remembering itself.

Mira sat up sharply.

Zoey’s hand tightened around the throw pillow in her lap, eyes snapping to the window.

Across the sky, the Honmoon rippled — its once-still blue layers flickering now like wind-rattled silk. A distant tremor in the threads. A wound forming in the veil.

A rift.

Open. Hungry.

Rumi was already back.

She was at the balcony door of the hotel room, barefoot, steady — unnaturally so, considering the champagne still sitting beside the sofa.

“You’re still drunk,” she said, voice quiet, almost tender. “Stay in the hotel. I’ll go.”

“Rumi—” Zoey started, already rising.

Rumi turned her head slightly, and for the first time, her eyes looked far away.

“I mean it. Please. Just… let me do this one.”

And then, softly — not to them, but to the wind outside — she began to hum.

A melody neither Mira nor Zoey recognized.

It wasn’t one of their songs.

It wasn’t anything they’d ever heard before.

It felt older than the room. Older than the tour. Older than them.

She stepped onto the balcony, the blue threads of the Honmoon pulsing faintly beneath her bare feet. With each step forward, the light gathered — curling around her ankles, whispering along her calves, until it lifted like mist spun from stars.

Her sword formed without sound — starlight drawn into shape as she moved, the hilt blooming into her palm like it had always been waiting.

And then she leapt.

Onto the layers of the Honmoon.

The blue lines bent beneath her weight, flexing but never breaking, stretching across the night sky like a bridge of light only she could run.

Zoey swore under her breath. “She’s doing it again.”

Mira was already up. “Not tonight.”

Zoey moved toward the balcony. “Not ever.”

The wind hit them hard as they stepped out — and the Honmoon welcomed them without pause.

The moment their feet touched the outer threads, the air shimmered, responding to them like it remembered their names.

Zoey’s daggers flickered into form — elegant arcs of purest starlight.

Mira’s woldo spun into her grip — the long pole gleaming with weightless light, the blade like a silver crescent, radiant and silent.

They didn’t hesitate.

They ran after her — across the living sky — chasing a girl who never stopped trying to protect them.

But they wouldn’t let her fight alone.

Not this time.

Not ever again.

The Honmoon bent low over the rooftop — a shimmering dome of layered light above the sleeping city.

The rift had torn through it like claws through paper.

The barrier still pulsed around the tear, trying to seal itself, flickering with blue light like veins under too-thin skin. And out of that wound in the world — the between — came the demons.

A dozen low-class demons.

One riftborn.

None of them special.

Rumi landed first — a whisper in the wind, blade already drawn from starlight, posture fluid, grounded, ready.

Behind her: Zoey and Mira, feet striking the blue threads of the Honmoon as they descended together, weapons singing to life — Zoey’s daggers unfolding from the light around her wrists, Mira’s woldo flickering into form like a crescent moon called down from orbit.

Rumi didn’t look back.

She didn’t have to.

They moved like instinct.

Like breath.

The first demon lunged, shadowed limbs clawing through the air — too fast for human eyes, but not for Zoey.

Her dagger left her hand in a blur of motion, embedding between the creature’s eyes before it fully charged. A second dagger followed the first and hit the mark.

It dropped mid-step, folding in on itself.

The second followed, shrieking, jagged like a mistake made flesh.

Rumi met it head-on, twisting low as it struck, her blade slicing upward in a clean diagonal. Light flared. Its form broke apart mid-scream, dissolving into ash across the rooftop.

Mira swept left — her woldo a full, gleaming arc — catching three leaping demons in midair and driving them back, slamming their body’s into the edge of the barrier with a crack of impact.

For a moment, it felt like choreography.

Like training.

Their rhythm was good.

But not perfect.

Zoey’s next dagger clipped a demon’s shoulder — not the neck.

Mira’s landing was just a beat too slow, and her knee jarred from the angle.

Nothing catastrophic.

But just enough.

Enough for Rumi to feel it — that slight drag in their movement.

She adjusted instantly. Covered their left side. Redirected the next lunge. Her blade glowed brighter now, the threads of the Honmoon responding to her breath, her focus, her unrelenting precision.

They had it handled.

These were easy demons.

They should have been.

The riftborn was last.

Taller. Smarter.

Its skin shimmered like obsidian glass, eyes too human. Its mouth didn’t move when it screamed — the sound came from somewhere deeper, like the air itself rejecting it.

It struck Zoey first — claws flashing.

Zoey ducked, barely missing the swipe, her foot slipping an inch on loose gravel. She recovered fast, spun low, a dagger slicing upward into its side — but it didn’t bleed.

It grinned.

Mira moved in, staff sweeping low — but the creature twisted, fast and wrong, dodging as if it knew her form before she moved. Her blade nicked its side, but not deep enough.

Rumi called out. “Fall back—!”

And they obeyed.

Rumi leapt.

She came down like a meteor — blade overhead, light bursting from her shoulders as she landed with both feet and drove her sword clean through the creature’s center.

It shrieked.

Folded in half around the blow.

But it wasn’t dead.

Not yet.

Mira repositioned. Zoey flanked.

And the moment stretched.

Just one second too long.

Mira’s boot caught the edge of a loose tile.

She didn’t fall — just stumbled.

Just enough.

The demon surged.

Toward her.

Claws lifted. Sword still stuck in its center.

And Rumi moved.

Faster than breath.

She didn’t think. She didn’t calculate.

She just stepped between.

The impact sounded like a body hitting steel.

The claw pierced high — too high — slicing through Rumi’s shoulder just above the collarbone and punching through clean.

Blood sprayed across the Honmoon threads.

Rumi didn’t flinch.

She grabbed the hilt of her sword — and with one last slash, she carved the demon apart at the waist, the starlight flaring like a burst of fire.

Pink mist evaporated in silence.

Chapter Text

The demon dropped.

Ash and starlight scattered across the rooftop tiles like broken constellations.

Rumi stood for one more second — then her legs gave out.

She fell to her knees with a crack of impact, her right hand instantly shooting up to clutch her left shoulder. Blood pulsed beneath her fingers.

Not a cut.

Not a gash.

A hole.

The demon’s claw had punched clean through — a ragged wound just beneath her collarbone, the kind of injury that should’ve dropped her instantly. The exit wound in her back steamed in the night air, raw and open, black at the edges with seared tissue. You could see through it — actually see through it, all the way to the stone behind her.

Zoey reached her first.

She choked on a breath as she dropped to her knees beside her. “Oh my god— Rumi—”

Her hands hovered, unsure of where to press without hurting her more. But blood was everywhere — warm, thick, shining red in the Honmoon light — so she pressed anyway. “I’ve got it— I’m stopping it— just hold still— please hold still—”

Mira was there next, stumbling to her side, eyes wide with horror. She didn’t speak at first.

Couldn’t.

Because she saw through her.

Saw the gaping exit wound, the shredded muscle, the way Rumi’s fingers trembled but never loosened from her sword until it faded from her grip, evaporating in a flicker of light.

“I slipped,” Mira said hoarsely. “I—I slipped, and I—”

Her voice broke.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”

Rumi looked at her.

Eyes glassy. Lips pale.

But still in control. Still trying.

“It’s okay,” she said, breath catching. “It’s not— it’s not that bad.”

“We can see through it,” Zoey cried, hand slick with blood. “You’re literally—bleeding out—”

“It just looks worse than it is,” Rumi whispered. “I’m fine. I just— I need a kit.”

🦋

They didn’t carry her — but they practically dragged her.

Rumi wouldn’t let them touch her back, wouldn’t let them call anyone. She stood as long as she could, leaned on the walls when she couldn’t, and nearly passed out twice in the hallway.

By the time they got her to the suite, her clothes were soaked in red, and she was barely upright.

“Sit down,” Zoey said, already yanking open the emergency supply kit, her voice tight with control that was fraying by the second.

But Rumi didn’t sit.

She stood in the doorway like her body didn’t know what to do without motion — as if stillness would make it real. One hand still clamped over the wound. Her grip trembled. Her knees buckled. But she stayed upright.

Barely.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice frayed around the edges.

“No, you’re not.” Mira snapped, coming around from behind the counter, voice hard and sharp. “You’re bleeding through your clothes and swaying like you’re about to die.”

“I just need the bathroom,” Rumi ground out, already turning.

Zoey stepped in her path. Gently. Firmly.

“No, Rumi. You need to sit.”

“I need space.”

“You need help.”

Rumi’s hand twitched. Her jaw clenched.

“I said—” she took a breath, trying to keep her voice level, and failing, “—I can handle it.”

Mira slammed the kit down on the table.

“Jesus, Rumi, what is wrong with you?!”

That did it.

That was the spark.

Because Rumi turned, eyes blazing, and it was like something cracked in her chest and came screaming out.

“Everything!” she shouted.

It was a sound that hit the room like a shockwave. Like glass breaking.

Her whole body shook.

And the words kept coming — too fast now, too raw to hold back.

“Everything is wrong with me! My blood isn’t normal. My body isn’t normal. I don’t even know what I am most days. I see Celine when I close my eyes. I hear her voice when I train. I can’t sleep. I can’t stop. I don’t know who I’m protecting anymore—”

She choked on the last word. Her legs buckled again.

Zoey caught her under the arm, but Rumi shoved her off, stumbling back.

“I lied to you!” she cried. “For years! And you’re still standing here acting like I’m someone you can save?!”

Her voice cracked on that last word — save — like it meant something bigger, something deeper, something she hadn’t let herself say until now.

“I’ve been breaking for so long I don’t know what it’s like to breathe without hurting. I didn’t tell you because if I did, you’d look at me differently. You’d hesitate. And I can’t afford that.”

She pressed a blood-slick hand to her chest.

“And if I slow down—if I stop—I’ll fall apart and I don’t know how to put myself back together.”

Silence.

The only sound was her ragged breathing, the soft drip of blood from her elbow to the floor.

Her vision swam.

Zoey’s hands trembled where she’d stopped mid-reach. Mira stood frozen, the harsh lines of anger melted off her face, replaced with something cracked open.

Then Zoey stepped forward.

She didn’t speak.

She just put her arms around her.

And Rumi—Rumi didn’t hug back.

Not right away.

She went stiff. Breathing hard.

And then she folded.

Not gracefully.

Not cleanly.

Just broke, right there in Zoey’s arms, knees hitting the floor, sobbing so hard her ribs shuddered.

Mira dropped down beside them and pulled Rumi in from the other side.

And they held her.

Blood and all.

No questions.

No fear.

Just love — fierce and desperate and unconditional — pressing into every crack she’d tried so hard to seal shut.

The sobs didn’t stop right away.

They came in waves — sharp, choking, years in the making.

But Mira and Zoey didn’t let go.

They held her close on the blood-slick floor, arms wrapped tight around her body like they could keep the pieces from scattering. Zoey’s hand cradled the back of Rumi’s head. Mira’s fingers found hers and laced them together, firm and grounding.

None of them spoke for a while.

The city lights bled through the curtain-slits in long, pale streaks.

Eventually, Rumi’s breathing began to steady — still uneven, still shuddering, but less.

She didn’t pull away.

And she didn’t break the silence.

Mira did.

Quietly. Gently. Like she was afraid to scare her off again.

“We already knew.”

Rumi didn’t move.

Zoey’s voice followed, soft and low against her shoulder. “That you weren’t… entirely human.”

“We figured it out a long time ago,” Mira added. “The way you heal. The strength. The way you ripped that demon in Seoul apart with your bare hands.”

Zoey gave a breath of a laugh. “It wasn’t exactly subtle.”

Rumi didn’t speak.

But her fingers curled slightly around Mira’s. Her shoulders shook once — not a sob this time. More like a held breath breaking loose.

“We wanted to talk about it,” Zoey said, her voice as gentle as it had ever been. “We tried. But every time we got close, you shut down.”

Rumi’s chest rose and fell.

Then she laughed.

Short. A little sharp. A little wild.

“You knew? All this time?”

“Yeah,” Mira said.

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“We didn’t want to push you.”

Another laugh — full of disbelief and something rawer beneath it.

“Then what the hell have I been hiding for?”

Neither of them answered.

Rumi let her head drop forward against Zoey’s shoulder, half-laughing, half-exhausted. “I’m such an idiot.”

“No,” Mira said, firm and low.

Zoey smoothed her fingers through Rumi’s hair, brushing sweaty strands back from her face.

“You’ve been scared,” she said. “That’s not stupid. That’s human.”

Rumi huffed something close to a sob. “Not completely.”

“And that,” Mira murmured, “doesn’t change a thing.”

She felt Rumi’s weight lean heavier against them, her limbs finally giving in to the exhaustion now that the fear had started to drain.

Her voice was hoarse when she asked:

“…Can you patch me up now?”

Zoey smiled.

“Yeah. Of course.”

Mira brushed her thumb across Rumi’s knuckles.

“We’re gonna take care of you, okay? No sudden moves. No lectures. Just… let us in. Let us help.”

Their voices had dropped into that soft, steady register — the one that didn’t ask permission, but offered safety.

Rumi nodded.

Barely.

But it was enough.

They got her onto the couch as if she might break.

And maybe she already had.

Rumi didn’t protest anymore — just sagged back into the cushions, arms limp, blood sticky beneath her fingers. Her eyes stayed half-lidded, unfocused. Every blink slower than the last.

The adrenaline was leaving her.

And her body was starting to crash.

“Stay with us,” Zoey whispered, crouched in front of her. “You’ve got this, okay? Just a little longer.”

Mira knelt behind the couch, already pulling the medical shears from the kit. “We’re gonna fix you up, Ru. You just breathe.”

Zoey’s hands were already on the front hem of her hoodie. “We’re cutting this. Alright?”

No answer.

Just the faintest nod.

They worked quickly, carefully — one from the front, one from the back — slicing the hoodie down the seams, peeling the fabric away bit by bit, cautious not to catch the skin still pulsing with injury.

The moment the hoodie peeled off her shoulder, they both froze.

Even with her inhuman healing starting to work — it was still bad.

The hole in her shoulder had closed just enough to no longer show through, but the tissue was swollen, bruised black and red, the skin around it stained with dried blood and flecked with pale violet markings that pulsed faintly beneath the surface — like fractures in glass that hadn’t fully sealed.

But it was no longer bleeding through.

The worst had passed.

She was still breathing.

And that was enough.

For now.

“Jesus,” Zoey whispered, voice cracking.

Mira didn’t speak.

But her hands moved with purpose.

They grabbed gauze and antiseptic, warm water and clean towels, and began.

Zoey took the front.

She dabbed gently at the wound, soaking the blood away, working around the edges with careful, steady movements. “You’re okay,” she murmured. “You’re doing so good.”

Mira handled the back — pressing clean cloth to the exit wound with controlled hands, wincing as Rumi flinched beneath her touch.

“You’ve always been the strongest,” she said quietly. “But you don’t have to prove it tonight.”

Rumi’s lips parted.

No words came out.

Just a thin, broken breath.

Her eyes fluttered, lids heavy.

“Rumi.” Zoey leaned in, voice firmer. “Hey. Look at me.”

Rumi blinked, gaze slipping toward her.

Her pupils were dilated. Her lashes sticky with sweat.

“Stay with us,” Mira said, voice from behind like a tether. “You’re here. You’re safe. Just a little longer.”

“We’ve got you,” Zoey added. “You hear me? We’ve got you.”

Rumi’s hand twitched weakly, resting against the inside of Zoey’s wrist like she was reaching, even now, for something to hold onto.

“You’re incredible,” Mira whispered. “You’ve held us together for so long.”

“Now it’s our turn,” Zoey finished, brushing a clean thumb across Rumi’s temple. “So don’t close your eyes just yet. Please.”

Rumi’s lips moved.

Maybe a thank you. Maybe nothing at all.

But she stayed awake.

Barely.

Held up by their hands.

By their voices.

Rumi’s head dipped once.

Then again.

And then it didn’t come back up.

“Rumi—” Zoey’s voice jumped an octave, panic cutting through her throat as she reached for her. “Hey—no, no—stay with me. Don’t—”

But Rumi was already falling.

Her body slumped forward with zero resistance, knees slipping from beneath her, her weight crashing into Zoey’s chest with a quiet, boneless thud.

Zoey caught her—barely—arms wrapping around her ribs as her breath hitched.

“Rumi—Rumi.”

There was no response.

Not even a groan.

Just the soft sound of breath against her collarbone, steady but shallow.

Zoey’s hands trembled where they held her. “She’s not answering—oh my god—she’s not answering—”

“She’s breathing,” Mira said quickly, voice low and anchoring as she circled from behind the couch. “Look. Zoey. Look at her chest.”

Zoey’s eyes snapped downward.

Rumi’s chest rose.

Then fell.

Then rose again.

Slow. Rhythmic. Alive.

“She passed out,” Mira said. “That’s all.”

Zoey let out a breath like it punched through her lungs, some awful edge of fear releasing just enough to move.

Together, they lowered her fully onto the couch—gently, carefully—stretching her across the cushions, tucking a rolled blanket beneath her shoulder to ease the pressure. Her head lolled sideways, a smear of blood from her temple staining the fabric where it met the upholstery.

Her arms hung loose.

One of her fingers twitched.

The shredded hoodie they’d cut away earlier had fallen, half-forgotten, over the armrest—draped and soaked like a banner laid down in defeat. Blood trailed from the threshold to the couch, dried in streaks across the floor, smeared faintly across their hands, their knees, even the bathroom tiles where Rumi had refused to stop.

The couch cushions were blotched with red.

The towel Mira had used was balled up in the corner, stained through.

It looked like a battlefield.

And in a way—it was.

Rumi had won, again.

But it had cost her everything she had left.

Zoey sat on the floor beside her, one hand on Rumi’s wrist, the other brushing hair gently from her forehead. Mira stood still, taking it all in. The wreckage. The impossible task in front of them.

It was just past 2 a.m.

Valerie and Bobby would be there in five hours.

And there was no way they could cover this up.

Not the blood. Not the torn clothing. Not the passed out women on the coach, who looked much to pale.

Mira rubbed her face with both hands. “Fuck.”

Zoey looked up at her.

“Yeah,” she said hoarsely. “We’re so screwed.”

And still—she didn’t let go of Rumi’s hand.

🦋

“We have five hours,” Mira said grimly, standing in the middle of the room with her hair tied up in a haphazard knot and a bloody towel in her hand. “That’s more than enough time.”

“It’s not,” Zoey muttered from where she was scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees, elbow-deep in cleaning wipes. “It’s really not.”

Blood trailed from the front door to the couch like a murder scene. The carpet was stained dark. The bathroom sink looked like a horror movie prop. The gauze wrappers were everywhere. And the couch—

The couch was ruined.

They’d thrown a blanket over Rumi, who was still unconscious but breathing steadily. Mira had tried to prop her up with pillows, make her look like she’d simply fallen asleep, but the angle was all wrong and there was still blood crusted along her jawline and collarbone.

The shredded hoodie remained draped over the armrest like a warning flag.

“You think we could say it was wine?” Zoey asked, wiping furiously at a red smear across the white tile.

Mira stared at her. “Who the hell drinks wine in spurts down a hallway?!”

“I don’t know!” Zoey hissed. “I’m grasping at straws here, Mira—we are out of options!”

Mira turned in a slow circle, taking in the chaos.

“The blood’s on the ceiling.”

“…oh god.”

🦋

The knock came soft.

Then again, firmer.

“Girls?” Bobby’s voice, muffled through the door. “Morning check-in! We’ve got transport in an hour!”

Inside, Zoey and Mira exchanged a wide-eyed, exhausted look.

The couch still looked like a crime scene with a blanket thrown over it.

The faint, coppery scent of iron still clung in the air like regret.

And Rumi hadn’t stirred once.

“Shit,” Mira whispered. “We’re out of time.”

Zoey made a strangled sound and opened the door.

The second Valerie stepped in, she stopped.

Bobby came in right behind her—and stopped, too.

Both of them blinked.

The smell hit first—iron, old blood, sweat, antiseptic—and then the scene unfolded like a disaster report in real time:

—The faint red smear trailing from the entryway
—The glistening patches on the rug that hadn’t fully dried
—The trash bags, shoved haphazardly into a corner, clearly seeping pink at the seams
—And Rumi.
Sprawled on the couch, unconscious, too still, too pale, bandages showing beneath the blanket like battlefield patchwork

Valerie moved first.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Just dropped to her knees beside Rumi like a machine being activated.

Two fingers at the pulse point.

One hand gently pressing along the gauze at her collarbone.

She pulled back the blanket slightly, assessing how pale her skin had gone. Eyes sharp. Mouth in a thin, professional line.

“Pulse is steady,” she said to no one in particular. “Shallow breathing. She’s stable—”

“What the hell—” Bobby blurted, already halfway across the room. “What happened to her? What is this? Is that—blood? Is that all—her blood?!”

Mira opened her mouth, but Valerie beat her to it.

Her voice didn’t rise.

It cut.

Like steel dragged across glass.

“What. The fuck. Happened.”

Zoey stepped forward, both hands raised, palms out.

“Okay. Listen. First of all—Rumi’s fine. She’s breathing. She’s just… y’know. Taking a very intense nap.”

Mira closed her eyes. “Zoey—”

“No, no—let me have this. It’s a funny story.”

“It is not a funny story—”

Zoey turned back to Bobby and Valerie, eyes wide with fake innocence. “You ever try to make midnight pancakes and someone stabs themselves with a whisk? Well—not that. But close.”

Mira groaned. “Zoey, for the love of—”

Valerie didn’t look up from Rumi.

But her tone darkened.

“She’s patched with gauze from a kit, not a clinic. Her hoodie has been cut off with trauma scissors from the kit. You cleaned her here. There’s blood on the floor, blood on the couch, blood on the fucking curtains—”

She finally turned her head.

Eyes sharp.

Voice low.

“I will ask you one more time.”

Beat.

“What. Happened.”

Zoey opened her mouth.

And Mira shoved her hand over it.

“She passed out,” Mira said instead. “We took care of the wound.”

Bobby was still stuck staring at the trash bags.

“Oh my god. There’s so much blood—”

Zoey, muffled: “I said she was fine.”

Mira: “Stop talking.”

Valerie took a deep breath.

Then stood.

“She needs fluids. Rest. And probably a scan to confirm her shoulder didn’t get torn out of alignment. But she’s not dying.”

She looked at both of them.

“You, however—might.”

Chapter Text

Valerie’s voice cut through the stale hotel air like a blade.

“You didn’t take her to a hospital?”

She stood stiffly beside the couch, arms crossed, fury burning low beneath her calm. Her gaze moved between Mira and Zoey — not hysterical, not shouting, but sharp. Controlled. Which made it worse.

“With that kind of injury?” she said, motioning to the blanket that clearly couldn’t hide the blood. “You thought this was something you could handle here?”

“She didn’t want—” Zoey started, voice small.

“Common sense doesn’t care what she wanted,” Valerie snapped. “You don’t treat a wound that deep in a hotel suite with pocket gauze and bottled water.”

Bobby, still pale from the sight of it all, already had his phone out.

“Okay,” he muttered, fingers shaking. “I’m calling—she needs EMTs, something, we can’t—”

“No—!” Zoey lunged forward. “You can’t.”

Mira reached him too, her hand covering his.

“Please. Don’t.”

Bobby looked between them, wild-eyed.

“She passed out from blood loss, Mira! I—what do you mean don’t? Why the hell shouldn’t I call emergency services?”

Both girls hesitated.

And then their eyes turned toward the couch.

Toward Rumi.

She stirred — just enough to roll her head slightly, her face pale, her lips cracked.

But her eyes were open.

Barely.

She saw them all — Bobby’s panic, Valerie’s fury, the fear hanging heavy in the air — and gave the smallest nod.

Too tired to explain herself.

Too hurt to care about consequences.

She was giving them permission.

Mira and Zoey moved to her side, kneeling gently at the edge of the couch, as if to shield her from the world.

Mira’s voice was quiet. “We’re demon hunters.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then Bobby laughed.

That high, disbelieving kind of laugh that came with people who were one breath away from completely unraveling.

“Wait—what? Are you—are you still drunk?”

He looked at Zoey. “Is this a joke? Are you messing with me right now? Because I swear to God—”

Mira stood.

She lifted her hand, fingers brushing the thin thread of Honmoon light around her wrist.

And summoned her woldo.

The weapon formed from starlight — long, curved, luminous. The room seemed to dim around its presence. It shimmered with something ancient, real.

Bobby’s mouth dropped open.

No laughter this time.

Only silence.

Valerie, strangely, didn’t flinch.

She stared at the blade. Then at Mira.

Her voice, when she spoke again, was quieter — almost thoughtful. “Does this have anything to do with the… tattoos on Rumi’s skin?”

Bobby let out a sound halfway between a squeak and a scream. “Tattoos?! She has glowing tattoos?! WHAT—”

“Yes,” Zoey said flatly, not bothering to soften it. “She has markings. We think they‘re not hurting her.”

“They’re part of what she is,” Mira added. “And we’ll explain everything. But later.”

Valerie gave a slow nod. Then shook her head and muttered, “This room is unsanitary as hell.”

She turned sharply to Bobby. “Do whatever it takes. Get this swept under the rug. Talk to the staff, the manager, I don’t care. Cash if you have to. This doesn’t leave the floor.”

“Okay,” Bobby said, still dazed. “Okay. I can—yeah, I can handle that. And we have the jet. It’s at the airport. That’s what I came to tell you earlier. Everything’s finalized. There’s a driver waiting in the garage.”

Valerie turned back to the couch. “She’s not walking anywhere.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Mira said immediately. “I’ll carry her.”

Zoey blinked. “Wait, wait—no. Not the full dramatic fainted bride carry.”

She crouched down beside Rumi, gently nudging her shoulder. “We’re gonna toddler-carry you, okay? Arms around my neck, head on the shoulder. Casual. Adorable.”

Rumi didn’t respond—eyes half-closed, lips barely parted.

But her fingers curled loosely in Zoey’s hoodie.

Agreement, in its own way.

Mira exhaled. “Let’s get her home.”

Valerie nodded. “And once we’re in the air, I want the full story. No half-truths.”

“You’ll get it,” Mira promised, her woldo already fading back into starlight. “Everything.”

And between the bloodstained couch, the glowing lines on Rumi’s skin, and Bobby still whispering “demon hunters?” to himself in the background—

That promise carried weight.

The truth was finally on its way.

But first—

They had to get home.

🦋

The elevator ride down was quiet.

Tense, but quiet.

Zoey stood in the center of the group, holding Rumi against her chest — arms looped securely beneath her legs and around her back, Rumi’s head tucked into the curve of Zoey’s neck.

Rumi didn’t move much.

She didn’t have the strength to.

But the moment Zoey had lifted her, coaxing her into a toddler-carry — arms around her shoulders, cheek against her collarbone — Rumi had melted into her. Not in pain. Not in fear. Just… relief.

Like letting go was the only thing she had left.

And even now, as they walked through the private corridor that led to the garage, her breathing was soft, warm against Zoey’s skin.

Then Rumi nuzzled in.

It was slow. Barely a shift. A tiny tilt of her head, her nose brushing the line of Zoey’s throat, her mouth near the curve of her shoulder. Not to speak. Not to ask.

Just there.

Seeking comfort. Seeking warmth. Trusting the safety of the arms holding her — the scent of Zoey’s hoodie, the sure rhythm of her steps, the heartbeat near enough to hear.

Zoey blinked fast.

Said nothing.

But she adjusted her grip, cradling Rumi just a little tighter. As if shielding her from the world wasn’t just a duty, but a promise.

Mira was at her side — walking close, shoulder to shoulder, positioned in such a way that no angle from the parking level would give anyone a clear view. Her eyes were sharp, her expression unreadable.

On Zoey’s other side, Valerie matched pace in quiet, cool silence. A single nod from her had summoned the elevator to a private service stop, bypassing public floors entirely.

And ahead of them, Bobby moved like a man possessed — scouting each corner before they reached it, waving off hotel staff, and murmuring something urgent to the driver by the black car idling in the far end of the garage.

Rumi didn’t notice any of it.

She just stayed curled against Zoey, her breath growing slower, her fingers tangled loosely in the fabric of Zoey’s hoodie sleeve. Her legs swayed gently with every step.

The world around them blurred.

But Zoey and Mira — Valerie, even Bobby — made sure that for this moment, at least, nothing could reach her.

Not flashing lights.

Not questions.

Not curious eyes.

Just warm arms.

Soft steps.

And home—getting closer with every heartbeat.

🦋

The SUV pulled up directly to the hangar gate, blacked-out windows shielding them from the morning sun that had just begun to edge over the horizon.

Zoey stepped out first, still carrying Rumi in her arms — cradled close in the new hoodie and soft sweatpants Mira had dressed her in. Her legs hung loosely over Zoey’s arm, head still nestled into the crook of her neck. She hadn’t stirred in minutes.

Then they saw the jet.

It gleamed in the soft light, sleek and silver with matte accents — a work of aerodynamic art parked like it owned the runway. Near the nose, emblazoned just above the stairs in subtle starlight-white print, was a symbol they all knew well.

The Huntrix logo.

Stylized, proud, impossible to miss.

Zoey squinted. “Why does this private jet have the Huntrix logo?”

Bobby, breathless and still adjusting his shirt after trying to bribe hotel staff in record time, looked over his shoulder. “Because it’s your jet.”

Mira blinked. “Our as in—?”

“Yours. Custom. Label funded. It was supposed to be a dramatic reveal during the world tour wrap party.” He looked at the bloodstained wrap of gauze peeking from Rumi’s collar. “Things… escalated.”

Zoey let out a soft “damn” under her breath.

They ascended the stairs slowly, Mira never straying more than a step from Zoey, who was still holding Rumi with practiced care — her grip secure, her pace measured. Rumi didn’t stir. But her hand had curled again into Zoey’s hoodie, and her cheek remained pressed gently to the hollow of her neck.

Inside, the cabin was spacious, minimalist, glowing with soft LED lighting and crisp leather seats. A low table stretched between lounge chairs; private sleeping compartments lined the back.

It didn’t look like a jet.

It looked like a sanctuary.

Zoey eased into the closest seat and settled back with Rumi still on her lap. She brushed the girl’s hair from her face, voice low and careful. “Hey, Ru… wanna lay down?”

Rumi mumbled something against her neck, her lips barely moving.

“Wanna stay.”

Not even a full sentence.

But clear enough.

Zoey smiled faintly and kissed her forehead. “Then stay you shall.”

Mira took the seat beside them, sitting sideways to keep one eye on Rumi.

Valerie and Bobby buckled in across the aisle.

The jet began taxiing.

And then—silence, broken only by the hum of acceleration.

The moment they hit cruising altitude, Valerie leaned forward, voice steady and sharp.

“Alright. Start talking.”

Bobby nodded fervently beside her. “Yes. Please.”

Zoey inhaled like she was about to launch into a multi-volume saga.

“So,” she said brightly, “here’s the thing — there was a rift in the Honmoon barrier, and we’re like demon hunters, and Rumi went ahead first because we were a little drunk, but like not ‘fall over’ drunk, just ‘emotional support cake’ drunk, and then we went anyway, and Mira tripped, and Rumi got stabbed through the shoulder, but it’s not as bad as it looks—like, her healing is crazy fast—”

Rumi stirred.

Her brow furrowed.

And she made a quiet sound — hnngh — of deep, annoyed disapproval.

Zoey stopped mid-sentence.

Valerie raised an eyebrow. Mira smirked.

“Well,” Mira said, glancing at the girl passed out in Zoey’s lap, “if I’d known all it took to get Zoey to breath between sentences was dropping Rumi in her arms, I would’ve started that trick ages ago.”

“I like her rambles,” Rumi murmured without opening her eyes.

Mira’s smile softened. “So do I. But I’ve got this one.”

“We’re demon hunters. The Honmoon is an ancient barrier that keeps most demons sealed away. Every generation, three girls are chosen to maintain it—and fight what slips through. That’s us.”

She glanced at Rumi. “Zoey and I found out when we were sixteen. Rumi’s known her whole life. Celine made sure of that.”

“She raised her more like a weapon than a person,” Zoey muttered, now subdued.

“We don’t fully know what she is,” Mira admitted. “She’s not completely human. Her blood’s different. She heals fast — too fast. And the markings—”

“We saw them today for the first time,” Zoey said. “Maybe they’re tied to the Honmoon somehow. But we haven’t had the chance to really understand them or that they mean.”

“If Rumi is comfortable she will share that part,” Mira finished.

A long silence followed.

Bobby looked like he was trying not to pass out again.

Valerie didn’t blink.

She just hummed under her breath.

Then said, “Well. That kind off explains the weapons. And the glowing. And the wound. Doesn’t explain your carelessness. We would have helped.”

She looked between the three of them, gaze lingering briefly on Rumi asleep in Zoey’s arms — half-curled now, her face tucked close, body slack but at peace.

“Though, to be fair,” Valerie added, leaning back with the slow precision of someone reevaluating an entire worldview, “none of you seem entirely human.”

Mira arched an eyebrow.

Valerie met it, expression unreadable.

“Normal humans don’t summon weapons out of a magical barrier to banish hellspawn.”

Zoey gave a small, lopsided smile. “Yeah… fair.”

Valerie sighed. “When we land, you’re telling us more. I need to understand it to help you better.”

Mira nodded once. “We will.”

She looked at Rumi again, still limp in Zoey’s lap, the faintest pulse of her patterns glowing beneath the edge of her hoodie.

The jet had quieted again, the engines now a soft, distant hum.

Rumi remained asleep, tucked into Zoey’s lap, her arms curled loosely in the folds of Zoey’s hoodie. Mira had adjusted the blanket over both of them and was now half-reclining beside them with her eyes closed — not asleep, but close.

And then Bobby started fussing.

“Okay—okay, don’t move,” he muttered as he rummaged through the cabin galley. “Where’s the chamomile? Do we have chamomile? Or—whatever this tea is. This has leaves. That’ll do.”

He came back holding a tray with two mugs of something vaguely steaming and an assortment of crackers, dried fruit, and small pastries. There were also two folded blankets and what appeared to be a travel pillow.

He handed Mira a mug. “Drink.”

“I’m not—”

“Drink.”

Mira sighed and took it.

“Zoey,” Bobby added, pushing a tiny plate into her free hand, “you’ve had nothing but guilt and adrenaline since 2 a.m. And wine before that. You’re dehydrated.”

Zoey blinked down at the plate. “Did you… arrange this like a charcuterie board?”

“It’s elegant under duress.”

He threw the blanket over Mira’s lap with far too much carelessness to be graceful and then attempted to tuck the second one around Zoey and Rumi without waking Rumi — which, miraculously, worked.

“She needs warmth for circulation,” he muttered to himself. “And you two need rest. You haven’t slept. At all.”

Mira gave him a look over the rim of her mug. “You noticed?”

“Of course I noticed,” he snapped. “You think I just missed the fact that my girls were out all night again?”

Zoey raised her eyebrows. “Okay, but in our defense—demons.”

“No more defenses!” Bobby hissed. “You should’ve told me before. All the late-night disappearances, all the rehearsals right after… whatever the hell that was—” he gestured to the bandages under the blanket, “—and you still hit every single performance, promo, and interview like clockwork. You’re not machines.”

“We’re not,” Mira said softly.

“Which is why I’m putting my foot down.”

Valerie, who had been silently sipping coffee near the back of the cabin, turned an eyebrow in his direction.

Bobby nodded firmly. “I want a mandatory break. At least a month. Full rest. No appearances. Rumi needs to heal, and all of you need to breathe. Idol by day, hunter by night? That’s not sustainable.”

Valerie gave a small hum of approval. “That’s… actually a good idea.”

Bobby looked smug for half a second.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear the actually,” he said, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder. “We’ll push back interviews. Rework your schedule. The fans will survive.”

Zoey gave him a lopsided smile. “You’re actually really good at this whole caring-and-commanding thing.”

“I’m your manager, Zoey. Not your funeral planner.”

Mira closed her eyes, letting her head tilt back against the seat.

Zoey looked down at the girl curled into her chest, who hadn’t stirred once despite the quiet chaos.

“A month,” she murmured. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

Rumi stirred slightly then — a breath, a shift, the faintest tightening of her fingers in Zoey’s hoodie.

Still asleep.

But safe.

The black car rolled to a slow stop outside the private hangar.

The girls didn’t move at first.

Inside the cabin, soft light glowed against the windows, quiet and safe. But the moment the door cracked open and the morning light filtered in, Rumi stirred with a sharp breath — just enough to signal she was waking.

Mira reached for her gently.

“I’ve got her,” she said softly, glancing at Zoey, who nodded without hesitation.

Zoey adjusted Rumi’s hoodie, brushing back a piece of hair and pressing a kiss to her temple before letting Mira take over. Mira cradled Rumi with ease, lifting her against her chest, one hand under her legs, the other braced around her back.

They stepped out into the morning light together.

And that’s when they saw her.

Celine.

Standing just past the security barrier, dressed immaculately in slate-gray, her arms folded, her expression unreadable — but sharp. She looked untouched by the flight, the hour, or the rules she’d clearly bypassed.

No badge.

No clearance.

No permission.

But she was already inside.

Rumi felt her instantly.

And she flinched — hard.

She buried her face into Mira’s neck without a word, body tightening like something primal had been lit inside her, like every breath became dangerous again.

Mira stilled. Her grip adjusted automatically, protective.

Valerie stepped down from the jet behind them, and the shift in Rumi’s body didn’t go unnoticed.

Celine’s voice cut through the air, cold and clipped.

“Rumi. That’s enough.”

Rumi flinched again. Visibly. Her hand twitched like she wanted to obey out of reflex alone.

Valerie’s expression darkened.

She didn’t know the whole story.

But she knew enough.

Enough to recognize that kind of command. That kind of reaction.

She’d seen it in too many sessions. And too many scars.

Bobby was close behind. The moment he saw Celine, his jaw tightened.

He hadn’t known it all back then — how deep it went. But he’d always known something was wrong. From the very first meeting. From the way Rumi never looked her in the eye.

Valerie stepped forward, voice even but firm.

“You need to leave.”

Celine’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Valerie said. “You’re not cleared for this hangar, and you’re not cleared to be near her. Not anymore.”

“I’m the only reason she’s alive,” Celine snapped. “You think she survived this long by herself? I built her.”

“You broke her,” Bobby said, his voice low, trembling with barely contained anger.

Rumi began to shift in Mira’s arms — not out of comfort. Out of fear. Out of habit.

She pushed against Mira’s hold weakly. “I—I should stand—”

“No,” Mira snarled, voice low in her throat like something protective had just snapped. “You don’t move because she said so. You’re not hers anymore. You never were.”

“I’m trying to help her,” Celine barked. “She needs to learn how to—”

Zoey stepped between them so fast the air seemed to crack.

Still dressed in travel clothes, hair messy from a power nap, her usual warmth melted into something glacial.

“We said no,” she spoke quietly, “Go.”

Celine opened her mouth—

And Zoey summoned her daggers.

No dramatic gesture. No flourish.

They appeared midair — six daggers of radiant starlight, cold and sharp, humming with tension. Three in each hand, flickering in the daylight like they didn’t belong in this world at all.

Zoey tilted her head just slightly.

Her voice was soft.

Dangerous.

“You say one more thing to her,” she said, “and I will cut you out of her life in the literal way.”

Celine’s eyes flicked to the weapons, to Mira’s unwavering grip, to Rumi shaking in her arms.

Then she looked at Valerie. At Bobby.

And for the first time—

She knew she’d lost.

No power.

No control.

Only a wall of unmovable force where her puppet once stood.

Celine scoffed.

“You’ll regret pushing me out.”

“We’ll survive,” Valerie said coolly. “You can go now.”

Security moved toward her. She hesitated—but only for a second.

And then she turned and walked out.

Not fast.

But not slow, either.

The moment she was gone, Rumi sagged again, breath shaking, buried so tightly against Mira’s chest she could barely speak.

Zoey dropped the daggers with a flick of her wrists. They vanished into light.

“I’m here,” she whispered.

“We both are,” Mira murmured. “And she’s never touching you again.”

Chapter Text

The apartment door clicked open, and the world exhaled.

The warmth inside hit like a lullaby — soft lighting, clean air, faint vanilla from the candles Zoey had forgotten to blow out before they left. It felt like safety. Like the first moment in hours where the air didn’t taste like iron or fear.

Mira carried Rumi in, arms careful but steady.

Rumi didn’t make a sound. She was still half-asleep, still curled in on herself, one hand loosely tangled in the fabric of Mira’s hoodie. Mira crossed the living room and gently lowered her onto the couch, adjusting the blanket as Zoey followed close behind.

Valerie and Bobby stepped in last.

Neither spoke for a moment. They just stood there — taking in the quiet hum of the place, the way Zoey hovered like a silent guardian, and the way Rumi immediately curled back toward Mira the second she sat down beside her. Not speaking. Just seeking warmth, connection.

Bobby scrubbed a hand through his hair and exhaled. “I still can’t believe the demon part was real.”

Valerie crossed her arms, watching the way Rumi pressed her cheek to Mira’s thigh like a child who’d barely survived the storm. “I can.”

Bobby gave her a sharp glance. “You can?”

“I didn’t say I understood it,” Valerie replied calmly. “But I believe it.”

They’d barely been home for ten minutes, and the calm that had settled into the apartment was already beginning to strain.

Valerie sat at the edge of the coffee table with the first aid kit open in front of her, methodically laying out fresh gauze, antiseptic wipes, and the kind of medical tape only hospitals usually stocked. She moved with purpose, but her eyes kept flicking to the girl bundled in blankets on the couch.

Rumi hadn’t said much — barely more than a hum since being set down — but she was still awake. Still aware.

Mira sat just behind her, her back against the armrest, Rumi’s legs draped across her lap like it was the most natural place in the world. Zoey perched on the floor, arms folded across the cushion near Rumi’s knees, close enough to touch but not crowd.

Valerie finally spoke, her voice firm but low. “We need to redress the wound.”

Rumi didn’t move at first.

Then — slowly, quietly — she murmured, “It’ll be cold.”

She didn’t say it as a protest. Just… a truth. A small thing she felt she should offer, in case they didn’t know.

Mira immediately reached down, brushing her hand along Rumi’s hair. “We’ll be quick. And careful.”

“We’ll warm the blanket after,” Zoey added. “You’ll be a burrito again in no time.”

Bobby, who’d been standing awkwardly near the kitchen island like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, perked up. “I’ll make tea,” he declared. “Chamomile. Mint. Anything you want. Something warm.”

“Something with sugar,” Zoey called after him as he moved. “For trauma.”

“I got you,” he muttered, already boiling water.

Valerie didn’t move from her spot. She just studied Rumi’s face, then glanced up at Mira and Zoey. “I’m not going to undress her,” she said calmly. “But I do need to see the wound. No offense, but I don’t entirely trust the bandage job from two girls who just fought demons while drunk and haven’t slept since yesterday.”

Mira let out a soft, dry laugh. “Still probably better than what she normally does.”

Valerie raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

Mira hesitated.

Then sighed. “I mean… sometimes she just throws a band-aid over it. Other times I have seen her staple it closed for speed.”

Valerie stared at her.

A pause.

A long one.

Zoey looked up slowly. “Mira.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you just say staples it closed?”

“…Maybe.”

Valerie slowly set down the gauze she was holding.

“Okay,” she said coolly. “So I have follow-up questions. About all of you. And also maybe the justice system. But they can wait until after I make sure she doesn’t have an infection.”

Rumi made a tiny sound — somewhere between a sleepy grunt and a guilty sigh.

“I’m fine,” she mumbled.

“You’re not fine,” Valerie said flatly. “You’re curled up on a couch, post-trauma, with a gaping wound that two pop idols are about to peel a hoodie off of like they’re in a first aid scene from a fantasy drama. So no, Rumi, you are not ‘fine.’”

Zoey blinked. “Wait. That was… kind of a compliment.”

Valerie gave her a withering look.

“Sorry,” Zoey whispered.

Mira leaned forward gently, her hands light as she reached for the hem of Rumi’s hoodie. “We’ll take it slow. Let us know if it hurts.”

Rumi shifted slowly, reluctantly, letting Mira ease her upright with gentle arms.

She sat between Mira’s legs, facing forward, head bowed, one hand still loosely gripping Zoey’s hoodie sleeve like she might float off without it. Mira kept a careful arm across her waist, steadying her, anchoring her.

Zoey moved quietly, crouched in front of her now, fingers gentle as she began undressing the hoodie inch by inch.

Rumi didn’t speak.

Didn’t flinch.

But her jaw was tight, breath shallow.

Valerie knelt beside the coffee table, gloves on, waiting.

When Zoey finally peeled the hoodie down off her shoulders, Mira helped guide Rumi’s arms through the sleeves, moving slow, careful not to disturb the gauze at her front. The hoodie pooled around her waist, her upper back and shoulders exposed to the warm light of the apartment.

And they all saw.

The front wound — the one Valerie had focused on — had scabbed but not closed entirely. It looked angry, raw in places, but clean. Zoey moved to hand her a disinfectant wipe, but Valerie gently waved her off, inspecting it with practiced, silent care.

Then Mira looked down.

At Rumi’s back.

And her hand froze where it rested near Rumi’s ribs.

The patterns were there — soft purple glows etched like constellations across the planes of her shoulder blades, curling up along her collarbones, dipping slightly down her spine. They shimmered faintly in the light, pulsing like they breathed.

But beneath them—

The skin was raised.

Not new.

Old.

Not just scarring — but purposeful.

Carved.

Thin, jagged, asymmetrical lines that tried to follow the curves of the demon patterns — not replace them. Erase them.

Cut them out.

Mira’s breath caught in her throat.

The look on her face didn’t shift all at once. It just settled. Like stone. Like grief wearing a mask of quiet.

Zoey moved behind her, slipping closer to peek over Mira’s shoulder—

And stopped dead.

“Oh,” she whispered, soft and broken.

Her voice trembled, just slightly.

She didn’t say what she saw.

She didn’t have to.

Because it was written in the strange geometry of pain left behind — years old, buried beneath magic, and only now brought into the light.

Valerie didn’t look yet — still focused on the front wound — but Mira didn’t speak.

Didn’t cry.

She just pressed her hand gently against Rumi’s side, steady, and rested her forehead against the crown of Rumi’s hair like it was the only thing she could do.

Rumi didn’t say a word.

She didn’t have to.

Mira had seen everything.

And now, so had Zoey.

Valerie gently laid the last piece of gauze over the front wound, her movements careful but brisk, expression professional — though her eyes betrayed something heavier beneath the surface. She fastened the bandage and leaned back, glancing toward Zoey for the antiseptic to seal the edges.

Then she stood.

And stepped around the couch.

When she finally saw Rumi’s back, she stopped cold.

The purple glow of the demon patterns shimmered softly across her shoulder blades and spine — beautiful, ethereal. But beneath them… were the scars.

Old.

Raised.

Carved.

It took Valerie half a breath to understand what she was seeing — and another to realize what she had missed.

Rumi started to tremble.

Barely at first — a soft shiver running through her shoulders.

Then, quieter: “It’s cold.”

Her voice sounded young.

Small.

Valerie’s tone softened immediately. “That’s normal,” she said. “You’ve lost blood. And accelerated healing burns energy. It puts your body under strain.”

“I’m done,” she added gently, backing away. “You’re all patched.”

Mira was already reaching for the folded clothes set aside earlier. She grabbed the softest hoodie from the pile — Zoey’s, by accident, oversized and already warmed — and helped Rumi ease into it with practiced tenderness. It swallowed her whole, sleeves falling far past her hands.

Rumi sank back into Mira without resistance.

Zoey, wordless, draped a heavy blanket over both of them — tucking it snugly around Rumi’s knees and shoulders. She didn’t say anything — just stayed close, eyes on her, one hand resting against Rumi’s shin beneath the layers.

Then Bobby entered with a tray of steaming mugs, carefully balanced in both hands.

He crossed the room, pausing just long enough to slide one into Mira’s reach.

“For her,” he said, unnecessarily.

Rumi blinked at the cup but didn’t reach for it. She stayed curled into Mira’s side, hands hidden, breathing steady but thin.

Valerie remained quiet for another moment, watching the shape of the three of them — how closely they fit together, like the seams of a home.

“Rumi,” she said softly. “Would you be willing to tell us a bit more?”

She didn’t press. Not yet. She let the silence stretch until Rumi chose to fill it.

And slowly… she did.

“I wasn’t… told much,” Rumi said at last, voice soft, slow. “Celine… didn’t think it was important. Or maybe she did, and just didn’t want me to think too hard about it.”

Mira’s hand stilled on her shoulder. Zoey, kneeling close, kept one hand on the blanket, just resting gently near Rumi’s knee.

“She told me I was born after a solo mission,” Rumi continued. “My mother… she said she was assaulted. By a demon. And that’s how I happened.”

The words hit the air like cracked porcelain — delicate, broken, sharp around the edges.

“I didn’t even know what that meant when I was little,” she said. “I just remember hearing it. Like it was some terrible, shameful equation: hunter plus demon equals me.”

Mira exhaled sharply, voice cutting through like heat under pressure.

“Celine’s a bitch.”

Rumi didn’t flinch. She’d heard worse. Especially from Celine.

But she gave a half-shrug. “I don’t know if it’s true. She always said it like… like it was a warning. Like she was making sure I knew what I was.”

Zoey blinked slowly, then frowned. “But—hunters and demons? That’s not even—like, that doesn’t happen. We’re taught from day one to kill demons on sight.”

“Exactly,” Rumi murmured. “That’s what I mean. It’s a stretch, right? Two completely different species. How does that even… work?”

Mira’s voice was tight. “She probably told you that so you’d hate yourself.”

“I already did,” Rumi whispered.

And the room went quiet again.

Valerie sat very still, watching Rumi from beneath lowered lashes. But inside, her mind was a map being redrawn in real time — patterns falling into place, old confusion redefined in brutal clarity.

Celine’s disdain.

Her clinical detachment.

The way she never spoke to Rumi in early reports, only about her.

How her training reports read more like military logs than mentorship records. How Rumi never used the word “mother” or “mentor.” Only Celine — flat, cold, separate.

Not a guardian.

A handler.

“You were raised like a soldier,” Valerie said softly. “Not like a child.”

Rumi didn’t reply.

She didn’t need to.

“None of it makes sense until now,” Valerie added. “Why you never pushed back. Why you don’t flinch at pain. Why you always choose silence over questions.”

Rumi’s hands stayed hidden in her sleeves. “I’m pretty sure that Celine would have killed me, if the Honmoon didn’t chose me then it did. Silence was safer.”

These words landed deep, not because they seemed like a stretch, but because the were right.

Zoey’s voice cracked when she spoke. “You’re not a mistake, Ru.”

“You’re not something shameful,” Mira added fiercely.

“You’re not alone,” Valerie said last, her voice gentler than before. “Not anymore.”

Rumi just stared at the floor, lashes low, blinking slow.

“I don’t know what I am,” she said. “But I’m tired of pretending I’m something I’m not.”

Mira leaned forward, pulling her a little closer, one arm sliding around her waist beneath the blanket.

“You’re ours,” she said. “That’s what you are.”

Rumi didn’t say anything.

But this time, when she exhaled, it sounded like the first real breath she’d taken all day.

The silence had settled thick across the room — not awkward, but weighted. Like something had been exhaled but hadn’t quite found its way back in.

Rumi sat still between Mira’s legs, hoodie draped around her shoulders, her head bowed, the soft glow of her markings dimmed beneath layers of fabric. She hadn’t spoken since she’d told them. Since the words had cracked open something that hadn’t seen light in years.

Zoey reached across the table for the mug of tea — the one Bobby had brought — and crouched beside the couch again, holding it out with both hands like she was presenting something sacred.

“Here,” she whispered. “Still warm.”

Rumi glanced up.

Then, slowly, she reached for it. Her fingers trembled slightly as she brought the mug to her lips, but she drank — one sip, then another.

Zoey smiled, even as her eyes shimmered faintly. “See? That’s, like, fifteen percent better already.”

Mira shifted behind her, gently taking the mug and setting it aside.

“Okay,” she murmured. “Come here.”

Rumi blinked. “I am here.”

“No, here-here.”

With careful movements, Mira helped guide her — slowly repositioning her, tucking her sideways into her lap, front-to-front. Rumi’s legs draped across the cushions, her forehead found the space just above Mira’s heart, and Mira wrapped both arms tightly around her middle. A cocoon. A fortress.

Rumi didn’t resist.

If anything, she melted into it.

The room stayed quiet for another stretch of heartbeats, the kind of silence filled with breath and safety and the hum of lights.

Then Zoey broke it.

“I’m gonna put on a documentary about turtles,” she announced, scrolling through the smart TV. “That okay?”

Mira blinked. “Turtles?”

“Calm. Gentle. No explosions. Very little emotional betrayal.”

Rumi made a barely-there noise into Mira’s hoodie — maybe a laugh. Or the shadow of one.

“That’s a yes,” Zoey decided, already cueing it up.

Across the room, Bobby leaned toward Valerie as the low narration of turtle migration began to drift in.

“So,” he said, sotto voce, “you think she needs the hospital?”

Valerie shook her head, watching the girls from the side. “No. Not unless she starts running a fever or the wound reopens. It’s healing — faster than it should, honestly.”

“Half-demon,” Bobby muttered. “That’s… new.”

“Not the strangest part,” Valerie replied quietly. “What’s strange is how long they hid it. I’ve been seeing the girls for years. And they never gave me a crack of this. Not even once.”

Bobby exhaled slowly. “They didn’t tell me either. And I’m… technically in charge of their career.”

“None of them opened up,” Valerie continued, voice low. “Not really. It’s no wonder therapy didn’t really work. They were surviving. Not healing.”

She leaned back slightly, eyes thoughtful. “But now I know what I’m dealing with. All of them. Maybe I can actually help now.”

Then, her voice dropped a little further, steel threading through it.

“We also need to keep her safe. From Celine.”

Bobby nodded. “I drafted a restraining order last year. Just… never filed it. Didn’t have enough to make it stick without pushing Rumi too hard.”

“Send it up,” Valerie said. “Quietly. No PR trail. If she tries to pull something again, we’ll have it in place.”

He tapped his phone. “Done.”

Valerie folded her arms. “And we give them a real break. Not just a cleared schedule — I mean actual peace. Space.”

Bobby nodded, already making mental edits to the upcoming calendar.

“Also,” Valerie added, almost absently, “we’re going to have to dismantle some of the mindset they were trained into. Killing demons on sight doesn’t work when one of their own is one — even partly. That kind of thinking…”

She trailed off, then shook her head. “It’s not just damaging. It’s dangerous.”

Bobby glanced back at the couch, where Rumi lay tucked into Mira’s arms, Zoey leaning her head against both of them from the other side. All three of them were quiet now, wrapped in the hush of tired safety, muted turtle facts playing softly in the background.

“They’re not just idols,” Bobby said.

Valerie nodded. “No. They’re so much more.”

The turtle documentary continued in the background, its narration hushed, the gentle lapping of ocean waves filling the apartment with something that almost felt like peace.

Rumi had long since drifted off, cradled in Mira’s arms, her breath slow and even against Mira’s chest. She was soft now — no tension in her shoulders, no tightly drawn lines across her brow. Just sleep. Deep, unguarded sleep.

Zoey had tucked herself beside them, half under the blanket, her head resting against Mira’s shoulder, legs tangled lightly with Rumi’s. One of her hands idly toyed with the hem of Mira’s hoodie, the other lightly covering Rumi’s slack fingers.

They sat like that for a while, saying nothing. Just breathing.

“She’s really out,” Zoey whispered eventually.

Mira nodded. “She needs it.”

Another beat of silence passed between them — heavy with everything unsaid and everything that didn’t need to be.

Zoey shifted slightly, her voice quieter now. “She’s not broken.”

Mira looked down at the sleeping girl in her arms. “No. She’s not.”

“She thinks she is.”

“I know.”

More silence.

Zoey tilted her face up a little, watching Mira out of the corner of her eye. “But you’re okay? Really?”

Mira looked between them — at the mess of limbs and blanket and breath and trust.

“I am,” she said. “When I have both of you here, I am.”

Zoey smiled faintly. “You’re dangerously soft these days.”

“Only for you.”

Zoey’s smile grew — small, tired, but real.

Mira looked back down at Rumi, her voice low and steady.

“She’s everything,” she whispered.

Then she turned, met Zoey’s eyes.

“And so are you.”

Zoey’s breath hitched — not dramatically, just enough to show she hadn’t expected it. Her hand stilled against Mira’s.

“Really?”

“Always.”

And then Mira leaned forward, not hurried, not hesitant — just sure.

She kissed her. Soft and slow. Like they had all the time in the world.

Zoey melted into it, the tension draining from her shoulders, her hand sliding to Mira’s jaw as if she could hold the moment there — keep it between them forever.

When they pulled apart, the world didn’t rush back in.

It just… held.

Rumi stirred softly between them but didn’t wake — only shifted closer, as if she somehow knew she was safe between two people who loved her fiercely, wholly, and without condition.

Zoey smiled again, her voice barely audible now.

“I like us like this.”

Mira tucked a piece of hair behind Zoey’s ear.

“Me too.”

🦋

The late afternoon light had deepened into gold, the kind that clung to the edges of the furniture and bathed the room in honey.

Dinner had come and gone — delivered quietly by Bobby before he and Valerie left with murmured reassurances and a promise to “handle everything.” They didn’t stay. They knew the girls needed the apartment to themselves now. To rest. To be close.

The turtle documentary had long since ended, replaced by a playlist of soft, ambient music Zoey insisted made everything feel like a forest in an indie video game.

Mira hadn’t moved.

Neither had Rumi.