Chapter Text
THE CITY PULSED with anticipation.
From every subway exit and street corner, fans poured toward the stadium like a tidal wave of devotion, their outfits drenched in purple and black — the sacred colors of Huntrix's fandom, a visual symphony of loyalty and love. Banners fluttered in the summer breeze, glittering with holographic ink that caught the light like magic.
It was the final night of Huntrix's world tour — a tour that had spanned continents, shattered records, and, if the rumors were true, sealed more than just ticket sales. Whispers of demon sightings, strange light shows, and unexplained power outages had followed the group from Seoul to São Paulo. But tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight was for the music.
"Let's go Huntrix!" The chant erupted from the crowd, a roar of voices layered with joy, adrenaline, and something deeper — reverence. Fans sang along to "JUSTICE," one of the group's earliest hits, a track that had become an anthem not just for the fandom, but for the resistance. Released five years ago, it still hit like prophecy: bold, defiant, and laced with harmonies that some swore could ward off nightmares.
The stadium's perimeter was a sea of signs and lightsticks. Faces of Luna, Rumi, Zoey, and Mira smiled from every direction — printed on posters, projected onto drones, painted across cheeks and forearms. Some fans had come for their first show, wide-eyed and trembling with excitement. Others were veterans, attending their sixth, seventh, even tenth performance, their devotion etched into every step.
"We love Huntrix!" The cry echoed again, louder this time, as the gates opened and the crowd surged forward. There was laughter, tears, and the electric hum of something ancient stirring beneath the surface. A few fans clutched handmade talismans — charms woven from concert wristbands and lyrics written in silver ink. Some believed they offered protection. Others believed they were keys.
Inside the stadium, the stage waited — massive, gleaming, and shaped like a crescent moon split by a blade. The lights dimmed. The crowd held its breath.
And somewhere, deep beneath the arena, the Honmoon pulsed.
The plaza outside the stadium buzzed with energy, a kaleidoscope of color and sound. Amid the sea of purple and black, a distinct pocket of pink shimmered like a beacon — Mira's fandom had arrived in full force.
A trio of girls stood before the pop-up interview booth, their cheeks flushed with excitement, their outfits coordinated down to the glitter on their nails. Pink bomber jackets embroidered with Mira's sigil — a stylized crescent moon wrapped in thorns — caught the light as they leaned toward the mic.
"Mira's my favorite," one of them declared, her voice trembling with joy. Her friends nodded emphatically, clutching lightsticks. "She's the visual and lead dancer. Nobody moves like Mira. It's like she's not even touching the ground."
The interviewer smiled, prompting them gently. One of the girls leaned in, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret.
"Apparently, she's the black sheep of her family."
There was a pause — not of judgment, but of intrigue. The kind reserved for idols who carried mystery like perfume.
Before the interviewer could respond, two guys burst into frame, laughing as they leaned in together, their fingers intertwined in a casual display of affection.
"I don't know why though," one said, eyes wide with sincerity. "She's so cool."
His boyfriend nodded, grinning. "Who else could wear a sleeping bag to the Met Gala and make it look like high fashion?"
The group laughed, and the camera panned to another cluster of fans nearby — a quartet of girls standing in eerie synchronicity, their expressions blank, serene, and unmistakably Mira-coded.
"She's our role model," one of them said, her voice calm, almost detached. Her face mirrored Mira's signature expression — unreadable, elegant, quietly defiant. Her friends echoed the look, their silence speaking volumes. "She's the best," she added. "Love her."
A cluster of fans stood proudly in their coordinated outfits — bomber jackets, bucket hats, and sneakers all dyed in Zoey's signature shade. Teal glitter dusted their cheeks, and some had even braided strands of the color into their hair. They were loud, they were loyal, and they were unmistakably Zoey-coded.
"We're here for Zoey!" one of them shouted, her voice rising above the hum of the crowd. She bounced on her heels, clutching a handmade sign that read "Teal Queen, Rap Goddess, Our Maknae."
"She's the rapper and lyricist!" her friend chimed in, a blonde with a teal scrunchie and a grin that stretched ear to ear. "Alongside Luna, obviously. But Zoey's bars? They hit different."
Another fan leaned into the camera, adjusting his glasses with theatrical flair. "She grew up in America. Burbank, California. You can hear it in her flow — it's got that West Coast bite."
Another fan popped up beside them, practically vibrating with excitement. "She's the cutest maknae ever. Her aegyo? Weaponized."
"But when she raps," a guy interrupted, eyes wide, "she goes hard."
The girl next to him nodded so fast her earrings jingled. "She gets scary. Like, 'You better watch out' scary."
The next group shimmered in soft hues of pastel orange — Luna's fandom color — glowing like the first blush of dawn against the concrete. A cluster of fans stood near the media booth, their outfits coordinated with celestial motifs: star-shaped earrings, moon-patterned skirts, and jackets embroidered with Luna's favorite constellation, Andromeda. Their excitement was obvious, vibrating through the air like the opening notes of a Huntrix ballad.
"Ahh! Luna is my favorite!" one girl squealed, clutching a plushie modeled after Luna's iconic debut look — the silver cape and orange boots from Starlight Requiem. Her voice cracked with joy, eyes sparkling behind glitter-dusted lashes. "She's the center of the group! Like, literally and emotionally."
Her friend nodded, bouncing beside her. "Mhm! She was an actress before this — did you see her in Echoes of Tomorrow? She was amazing. But she switched to being an idol because she fell in love with music. She said it felt like breathing in color. She's the usual song-writer for the group!"
"She was also a model too! Gosh have you seen her old magazine covers? She's breathtaking!"
Another fan leaned in, holding up a handmade sign shaped like a telescope. "She calls us her 'Stars' because she loves space — but she loves us more. Isn't that the cutest thing ever?"
"She's not just our center," one of them said softly. "She's our gravity."
The air outside the stadium shimmered with light purple — not quite Huntrix's official colors, but unmistakably Rumi's. Her fans had claimed the shade as their own, a soft, regal hue that spoke to her legacy: not just as an idol, but as the daughter of a legend.
"We love Rumi!" a group of fans shouted in perfect sync, their voices rising above the crowd like a chorus. They wore matching jackets embroidered with her sigil and carried lightsticks that pulsed with violet fire.
"She's pop-star royalty," one girl declared, clutching a handmade banner that read Born to Sing, Raised to Lead. Her friend beside her nodded enthusiastically, eyes wide with admiration.
"Her mom was one of the Sunlight Sisters," another fan added, her voice reverent. "She died when Rumi was just a baby. But Celine took her in, trained her, and built Huntrix around her. She's not just a member — she's the heart."
The group fell quiet for a moment, as if honoring that truth. Then one girl exhaled, dreamy and dazed. "Rumi's voice is just... incredible. Like, it doesn't even sound human sometimes."
"It brings us to tears!" a trio of guys cried out, their faces streaked with glitter and emotion. One of them wiped his cheeks with a sleeve covered in Rumi's lyrics, embroidered in silver thread.
"They're taking a break after this tour," another fan said, her voice cracking with emotion. "And they totally need it. But we're gonna miss them so much!"
Before anyone could respond, a thunderous beat rolled through the stadium — the unmistakable opening of "How It's Done," Huntrix's latest hit. The crowd erupted, screams and cheers blending into a wave of sound that shook the ground.
Luna wore a look of unwavering determination, the expression carved delicately into her soft features like a promise. Her cyan eyes were vivid and alert, flicking back and forth between the girls seated around her and the vibrant spread of food laid out on the table between them. The jet’s cabin was quiet except for the low hum of engines beneath their feet, a steady rhythm that matched the pulse of anticipation in her chest. They were en route to their final show, the culmination of everything they’d trained for, dreamed of, fought through. None of them realized they were off course. None of them knew they were running late. Their focus was entirely absorbed in the ritual that always came before the stage.
Inside the cabin, the lighting was low and warm, casting a golden glow over the table between them. Plates of tteokbokki, mandu, and honeyed rice cakes shimmered faintly.
“Okay,” Rumi said, her voice steady, her posture regal. Her braid—long, thick, and laced with silver thread—fell like a banner down her back, nearly brushing her calf. “This is our biggest show yet.”
Her words settled over them like a spell. Luna nodded, her fingers curling around the edge of the table, grounding herself in the moment.
“The most songs,” Zoey added, her grin wide and wild. Her eyes sparkled under the jet’s ambient lights.
“The most moves,” Mira murmured, her voice flat but never lifeless. She adjusted the cuffs of her jacket. Her energy was quiet, but it matched theirs—steady, unwavering.
Luna’s smile returned, gentler now, touched with warmth. She leaned into the circle they had formed, her body folding slightly inward as their arms reached out and wrapped around each other’s shoulders. The gesture was instinctive, familiar, grounding. Together, they surrounded the table, their bodies forming a ring of connection and shared anticipation. The food beneath them—colorful, fragrant, and carefully arranged—was more than just a meal. It was tradition. It was unity.
“The most fans,” Luna said softly, her voice filled with quiet reverence.
“Which means,” Rumi declared, her voice brimming with conviction as she gestured dramatically toward the mountain of food before them, “the most carb loading.”
She nodded once, sharply, as if sealing a pact with the universe. The others didn’t need prompting. In perfect sync, all four girls threw their arms into the air, fists raised high above their heads, their voices rising in a unified chant that echoed through the jet cabin like a battle cry.
“For the fans!” they shouted, their fists pumping with exaggerated enthusiasm, laughter bubbling up between the syllables.
Then, as if a switch had flipped, they collapsed inward toward the table, arms reaching, mouths already full or about to be. Their preconcert ritual had officially begun.
It was a tradition as old as their first tour—an unspoken agreement that before every performance, especially the big ones, they would eat. Not just snack. Not just nibble. Eat. With abandon. With purpose. With the full knowledge that every calorie consumed would be burned off in the firestorm of choreography, vocals, and adrenaline that awaited them on stage.
And this concert? It wasn’t just any show.
It was the final performance of the tour. The longest setlist. The most intense choreography. The most emotionally charged crowd. And they were back in their home city, the place where it all began. The stakes were higher, the energy heavier, and the carbs—absolutely essential.
“I need like, ten thousand calories just to survive the choreo,” Rumi said, her words muffled by the sheer volume of food in her mouth. She didn’t pause between bites, shoveling spoonfuls of rice, noodles, and dumplings into her mouth with the urgency of someone racing against time. Her braid swung behind her with every movement, a rhythmic counterpoint to the chaos of her eating.
She wasn’t exaggerating. The choreography for this show was brutal—layered, fast-paced, and relentless. Every beat demanded precision, every transition required power. And Rumi, ever the perfectionist, was determined to give it everything she had. Which meant fueling like a warrior before battle.
Across from her, Luna was already halfway through a stack of pancakes, alternating bites with mouthfuls of soft, buttery bread. Her cheeks were puffed out slightly, her expression focused and determined, as if she were strategizing her carb intake like a general planning a siege.
“More like just the first chorus,” she muttered between bites, her voice low and dry, but laced with humor. She didn’t look up, too busy tearing off another piece of bread and dunking it into a pool of syrup with surgical precision.
The others snorted in agreement, their mouths too full to respond properly. Mira reached for another skewer of grilled meat, her movements calm and deliberate, while Zoey was already halfway through her second bowl of spicy tteokbokki, her lips tinged red from the sauce.
“A thousand percent,” Mira said, her voice muffled slightly by the mochi she was aggressively stuffing into her mouth. Her cheeks were puffed out like a chipmunk mid-hibernation prep, but her eyes gleamed with conviction. She swallowed hard, barely pausing before adding, “A gajillion percent.”
The declaration was so absurdly confident that Luna burst into giggles, nearly choking on the bite of pancake she’d just taken. She clutched her chest dramatically, wheezing through laughter as Zoey leaned into her, laughing just as hard, her chopsticks frozen mid-air with a piece of kimchi dangling precariously.
Rumi, unfazed and still chewing through a massive sushi roll, glanced over at Mira with a raised brow. “Man,” she said, her voice thick with rice and seaweed, “that’s not even a real number.”
Luna, still recovering from her giggle fit, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and grinned. “We can make it one,” she said between bites, her tone playful but firm. Her fingers reached for another slice of pancake, the syrup glistening under the cabin lights.
At this point, none of them cared how they looked. Not in front of each other. They’d lived together for years—shared cramped dressing rooms, survived grueling rehearsals, cried through heartbreaks, and laughed through breakdowns. They’d seen each other at their worst: sweat-soaked, sleep-deprived, mascara-smudged, and emotionally raw. They’d cried in front of each other, fought over laundry, shared toothbrushes in emergencies, and once watched Zoey eat an entire cake with her hands after a breakup. Eating like this—talking with their mouths full, reaching across the table, stealing bites from each other’s plates—was nothing.
“Yeah!” Mira exclaimed, her voice rising with renewed enthusiasm. She threw an arm around Luna’s shoulders, pulling her in with a jostling squeeze that made Luna laugh again. With her free hand, Mira grabbed a pancake and held it out like an offering.
Luna accepted it without hesitation, biting into it with a satisfied hum. It was a silent exchange—gratitude for loyalty, payment for backup, a gesture that said I’ve got you without needing words.
“We’ll make it one,” Mira said, her voice softer now, but no less sure. “For our fans.”
Rumi leaned over the table, eyes locked on the sushi roll in front of her like it held the secrets of the universe. She sniffled once—whether from emotion, anticipation, or sheer hunger, no one could tell—and then sank her teeth into the roll with a sound so guttural and euphoric it could’ve been mistaken for something illicit. The way she moaned through the bite, eyes fluttering closed for a brief second, made it seem like she’d just tasted pure transcendence.
Across from her, Zoey tore into a bag of chips with the ferocity of someone who hadn’t eaten in days. The bag split open with a loud crack, sending chips flying in every direction—over the table, into their laps, onto the floor. Luna gasped and lunged forward, hands darting through the air like a catcher in a food storm, snatching as many chips as she could mid-flight and shoving them into her mouth with gleeful desperation.
It was chaos. Beautiful, carb-fueled chaos.
“Our fans deserve the best,” Rumi muttered between bites, her voice low and muffled by rice and seaweed.
None of them acknowledged the flight staff hovering nearby, their expressions caught somewhere between horror and disbelief. One attendant stood frozen with a tray of untouched drinks, eyes wide as she watched the girls devour their food like wild animals. Another whispered something to a colleague, glancing nervously toward the table. Luna caught the look—disgust? Fear? She couldn’t tell. And frankly, she didn’t care.
She was too hungry to decode human reactions.
Instead, she reached for another piece of bread, slathered it with mochi, and shoved it into her mouth with practiced ease. She didn’t eat meat, so the sushi was off-limits, but she made up for it with carbs—soft, sweet, and endlessly comforting. Her cheeks were full, her fingers sticky, and her heart oddly light.
Within minutes, the snack portion of their pre-show ritual was complete. Plates were empty, crumbs scattered, wrappers crumpled. The air smelled like soy sauce and sugar. Their stomachs were full, their spirits high.
And now, it was time for the most important part.
“Okay, time for our pre-game ramyeon!” Rumi announced with theatrical flair, her voice rising above the hum of the jet’s engines. She raised her cup high above her head like a trophy, the label glinting under the cabin lights—Superstar Flavor, bold and flashy, just like her. Luna squinted at the cup, still unsure what the flavor actually was. Sushi? Maybe. She’d never tried it herself—Rumi had warned her off years ago, casually mentioning it was meat-based, and Luna had steered clear ever since.
The cup was more than just instant noodles. It was legacy.
About a year ago, the group had partnered with a popular ramyeon brand for a limited-edition collab. Each member had designed their own flavor, complete with custom packaging, slogans, and even tiny collectible charms tucked inside the lids. Since then, none of them had touched another brand.
“Happy fans, happy Honmoon!” the girls cheered in unison, their voices overlapping with laughter and warmth. Zoey held her Hamburger Flavor cup like it was sacred, grinning as she tilted it toward the center. Mira, ever composed, raised her Spice Queen with quiet pride. Luna cradled her own cup—Soy Space Flavor—a strange but addictive blend of soy sauce, cheese, and something else the company had never disclosed. Whatever it was, Luna was hooked. She’d once eaten five in a row during a writing session and still craved more.
They leaned in, cups extended, and clinked them together with a satisfying thunk, expecting the usual splash of hot water to burst out dramatically like it always did during their pre-show cheer. But this time—nothing.
No splash. No steam. Just silence.
The four girls froze, cups still pressed together, then slowly pulled back and peered inside. Their expressions shifted in perfect sync from celebratory to crestfallen.
Empty.
Not a single drop of water.
Their faces fell into exaggerated pouts, shoulders slumping as they stared mournfully into their dry cups.
“There’s no water in these,” Zoey murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She stared into her empty cup as if hoping the noodles might magically hydrate themselves. But the truth settled in fast and heavy—no steam, no scent, no comfort. Her heart sank, a quiet thud in her chest. The pre-show ritual, their sacred little moment of togetherness, had hit a snag.
Rumi’s head snapped toward the aisle with practiced urgency, her instincts kicking in like they did during live interviews or chaotic backstage scrambles. “Um, excuse me, miss?” she called out, one hand raised in a polite wave, the other still clutching her Superstar Flavor cup like it might vanish if she let go.
The other three followed her gaze, heads turning in sync like dancers in a slow-motion routine. Luna blinked, her brows furrowing as she leaned gently into Mira’s shoulder, seeking quiet reassurance. Mira didn’t move, just let Luna rest there, her own gaze fixed ahead with quiet curiosity.
And then Luna saw it.
The stewardess—immaculate in her uniform, hair pinned with clinical precision—was standing by the galley, pouring hot coffee into a potted plant. Not watering. Pouring. The stream of dark liquid cascaded over the soil, soaking the roots with bitter heat. The plant—a once-cheerful little fern—visibly sagged, its leaves curling inward like it was trying to escape.
Luna’s lips twitched downward, her frown slow and reluctant, like her face couldn’t quite believe what it was seeing. “Is she… watering it with coffee?” she whispered, more to Mira than anyone else.
The stewardess turned her head with eerie calm, still pouring, her eyes meeting Rumi’s with a practiced smile that didn’t quite reach her cheeks. “Yes, Miss Hunter… ix?” she said, voice lilting with uncertainty, as if the name had been misfiled in her mental Rolodex.
Luna’s gaze drifted past the stewardess, drawn to the two other flight attendants lingering near the galley. Something about them felt… off. Not just distracted, but untethered. One of them—a woman with a tight bun and a name tag that read Cynthia—was swaying gently from side to side, her eyes unfocused. She clutched a single pancake between both hands, holding it flat like a sacred offering.
The other attendant—a man with a sharp jawline and two knives gripped in each hand—was swaying too, mirroring Cynthia’s rhythm. His eyes flicked between the stewardess still standing before the girls and the table full of untouched food. The knives gleamed under the cabin lights, not menacing exactly, but unsettling in their casual presence. He looked like he was waiting for something. Or listening to something only he could hear.
Luna blinked slowly, her body still pressed against Mira’s shoulder, the warmth grounding her. She felt the tension ripple through the group, subtle but unmistakable. Rumi, ever the diplomat, lifted her cup halfway and offered a gentle reminder, her voice soft but clear.
“We asked for hot water…”
She didn’t get to finish.
The stewardess snapped upright, her spine going rigid like a marionette pulled taut. “Right away!” she chirped, her voice too bright, too rehearsed. Luna’s eyes narrowed as she watched the two attendants in the back begin a new ritual—stacking pancakes onto the blade of one of the knives. One. Two. Three. Four. Each layer balanced with eerie precision. Their faces lit up with childlike delight, as if they’d discovered a new game. As if this was normal.
“You’re welcome,” the stewardess said, bowing low with one arm raised in a flourish, the other still clutching the half-full coffee pot. Luna’s eyes flicked to the plant beside her—its leaves now drooping, the soil soaked in bitter brew. The other half of the pot had already been poured out, sacrificed to the fern like some strange offering.
“Arrivederci,” the stewardess added, her voice lilting with theatrical finality. She turned sharply, her body swiveling toward the front of the plane, but her head remained twisted unnaturally, still watching them. Her eyes didn’t blink. “Goodbye.”
The plant gave up then—its last leaf curling inward like a sigh. Luna frowned, her chest tightening with quiet concern. The stewardess’s behavior was strange, yes, but Luna barely registered it. Her attention was fixed on the plant, on the way it had wilted so completely, so suddenly.
“Um… okay?” Rumi muttered, her voice trailing off as she blinked at the stewardess’s retreating figure. The woman’s behavior had been strange—too stiff, too rehearsed—but Rumi didn’t have time to dwell. Her phone buzzed in her hand, and Bobby’s name lit up the screen like a beacon. Her face brightened instantly, the tension melting away as she answered the FaceTime with a grin.
“Hi Bobby!” she beamed, angling the camera toward herself. The other three chimed in with cheerful greetings, their voices overlapping in a chorus of affection.
Luna barely glanced up, already halfway through a handful of snacks. The table was a mess of crinkled wrappers and half-eaten treats, and Zoey—ever the snack queen—had just torn open another bag of chips. She nudged it toward Luna with a grin, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
The maknae didn’t hesitate. She scooped up a few chips and popped one into Luna’s mouth with exaggerated care, like she was feeding a baby bird. Luna giggled through the crunch, cheeks puffed out, eyes crinkling with delight. It was silly and familiar and grounding—exactly what she needed after the surreal coffee-plant incident.
“Yeah, hi!” Bobby’s voice came through the phone, slightly muffled by background noise. Luna paused mid-chew, glancing at the screen. Behind Bobby, there was a blur of movement—fans, probably. She could hear distant cheers, someone yelling something unintelligible, and the unmistakable buzz of pre-show energy.
She hummed in acknowledgment, then returned to her snacks. Whatever chaos was happening on Bobby’s end, it felt far away. Here, in their little bubble of junk food and inside jokes, everything was soft and safe.
“Um… what are you doing?” Bobby asked, his brow furrowing slightly as he tried to make sense of the scene—four girls crowded around a table, surrounded by snacks, holding branded ramyeon cups like sacred relics.
“About to eat our pre-show ramyeon,” Rumi replied, her voice light and proud. She panned the camera across the table, capturing Zoey mid-bite, Mira delicately sipping from her cup, and Luna with chip crumbs on her lips, still chewing. Then she brought it back to herself, smiling like this was the most normal thing in the world.
Bobby blinked at the screen, his face framed by the golden light of early evening and the rising swell of noise behind him. “Pre-show?” he echoed, his voice tight with confusion, a flicker of anxiety threading through his tone. He angled the camera outward, revealing a sea of fans already gathered—cheering, waving signs, some bouncing on their toes with anticipation.
“What about the show-show?” he asked, eyes wide, as if the girls had somehow missed a memo.
Before Rumi could respond, the phone was snatched from Bobby’s hands with the kind of speed only a determined fangirl could muster. A blur of glitter and excitement filled the screen as a group of girls leaned in, their faces glowing with joy.
“We love you!” they shouted, voices overlapping in a chaotic harmony of adoration.
The four girls on the couch lit up instantly, instinctively pressing closer together, limbs tangled and laughter bubbling up as they tried to fit into the frame. Zoey’s knee knocked against Rumi’s thigh, Mira’s elbow nudged Luna’s ribs, and Luna’s cheek squished against Zoey’s shoulder—but none of them minded. Their eyes sparkled, cheeks flushed with affection as they chorused back, “Oh, we love you too!”
Then came the next wave.
Another group surged into view—this time a cluster of sobbing guys, decked out in full Huntrix merch: custom jackets, lightsticks, even face paint. One clutched a signed album like it was a lifeline. Tears streamed down their faces, raw and unfiltered, and the emotion hit like a tidal wave.
The girls didn’t hesitate.
They cried with them.
Not performatively, not for the camera—but because they felt it. The love, the vulnerability, the sheer intensity of being seen and adored so deeply. Their eyes welled up, voices cracking as they tried to speak through the tears. Mira sniffled, her hand reaching for Luna’s without thinking. Luna leaned into Rumi, who was already curled against Zoey, the four of them forming a soft, tangled pile of limbs and emotion.
“That’s so sweet,” Mira whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of shared sobs. She tucked her head against Luna’s shoulder, and Luna turned slightly, letting her rest there. Rumi’s fingers brushed Zoey’s wrist, grounding them both, while Zoey blinked rapidly, trying to smile through the tears.
“Yo!” came the next voice, loud and proud, as another fan snatched Bobby’s phone with the confidence of someone who’d been waiting for this moment his entire life. He leaned into the frame, glasses slightly askew, facial hair trimmed in a way that vaguely resembled Bobby’s—intentional or not, it was hard to tell. His grin was electric.
“I just got this!” he declared, and without hesitation, yanked his shirt up to reveal a fresh tattoo inked across his ribs: Huntrix in bold red lettering, nestled inside a heart. The skin around it was still slightly pink, the lines crisp and new.
Luna’s eyes widened, her breath catching for a beat before her face lit up in awe. “Woah,” she whispered, voice soft but reverent. Her fingers twitched as if she wanted to reach through the screen and trace the lines herself. Tattoos were her language—her body a canvas of stories, symbols, and dedications, a lot of stars mainly. Among them, a few etched just for her fans. One, in particular, mirrored this man’s gesture: the fandom name inked over her heart, a permanent promise.
Beside her, Mira tilted her head, lips curling into a smirk of genuine approval. “Sick,” she said, voice low and impressed. She didn’t wear her emotions loudly, but the nod she gave was full of respect.
Zoey and Rumi, however, were less sure how to respond.
They stared at the screen, blinking in tandem, caught somewhere between admiration and mild horror. Rumi’s mouth opened slightly, then closed. Zoey’s eyebrows climbed higher with each passing second. The tattoo was bold. Intense. Permanent. And while they appreciated the love, the sheer commitment of it made them cringe just a little.
Thankfully, before the moment could spiral into awkward silence, Bobby reappeared—his hand darting into frame like a rescue mission.
“Gimme that!” Bobby’s voice snapped through the phone, sharp and panicked as he wrestled it back from the last fan. His eyes locked onto the girls, wild with urgency. “Why are you so late?”
“Late?” Rumi echoed, her brows knitting together as she turned toward the screen. Her voice was calm, but confusion laced every syllable. Luna, unfazed, leaned across her lap and snagged another chip from Zoey’s bag. Zoey didn’t miss a beat—she popped one into Luna’s mouth with a grin, the two of them chewing in sync, their expressions blank with mild puzzlement.
The four girls exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. No one had mentioned being late. Their schedule was tight, yes, but they were on the jet. They were en route. Weren’t they?
“Fifty thousand fans are waiting for you,” Bobby said, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of it. He turned his phone toward the window behind him, revealing a glowing stadium—massive, radiant, pulsing with anticipation. The crowd was already there, signs waving, lights flickering like stars. But something was wrong.
The stadium was getting smaller.
The girls scrambled to their knees, pressing against the jet’s window. And there it was—their stadium, unmistakable, drifting farther and farther away beneath them. The lights blurred into a distant constellation, the cheers now just a faint hum swallowed by altitude.
“They made cute signs and everything,” Bobby added, softer now, like he was trying to remind them of the love waiting below.
The girls turned slowly back around, the weight of realization settling over them like fog. Their expressions shifted—confusion melting into dread, then sharpening into suspicion. Their eyes narrowed in unison, trained on the flight staff.
The staff hadn’t moved much, but they were closer now. Noticeably so. The male attendant was still fixated on his pancake-and-knife balancing act, stacking with eerie precision. The other two hovered nearby, pretending to be busy. One was watering the already wilted plant with more coffee, her movements mechanical, detached. The other stood perfectly still, staring into the concave surface of a spoon, inspecting it like it held the secrets of the universe.
“How can you be late?!” Bobby’s voice burst through the phone, sharp with urgency but softened by the unmistakable undertone of care. His brows were furrowed, eyes wide, but the girls knew him too well to mistake it for anger. He wasn’t truly upset—not with them. He never could be. They were his girls, his chaos, his heart. If anything, he was worried. Protective. And frustrated at a situation none of them could control.
“I wish you were here,” he added, voice cracking just slightly at the edges.
Rumi exhaled through her nose, her patience thinning like stretched thread. “Keep your shirt on,” she said flatly, her tone clipped but not unkind. She knew Bobby’s spirals—how his worry could turn theatrical if left unchecked. And right now, she didn’t have the bandwidth for dramatics. Not when they were dealing with whatever this was. Demonic flight staff. Pancake rituals. A stadium drifting farther away by the second.
“We’ll be there in three,” she promised, her voice steady now, the kind of calm that came from years of managing chaos. She ended the call before he could spiral further, thumb tapping the screen with finality.
Luna groaned, her body folding forward like a puppet with cut strings. Her forehead landed squarely in a plate of syrup-soaked pancakes, and she let out a pitiful whine as sticky sweetness smeared across her cheek. “Gosh…” she mumbled, voice muffled by carbs. “Why can’t they ever just leave us alone for a day? Or like an hour. Just one hour after we finish eating?”
Zoey reached over with a napkin, dabbing at Luna’s cheek with gentle precision, her expression somewhere between sympathy and amusement.
“I didn’t even get to finish my ramyeon!” Mira groaned, gripping her cup like it had personally betrayed her. She turned toward the flight staff, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. Her glare was sharp enough to cut through steel—or at least through pancake stacks.
“We didn’t even start our ramyeon…” Luna corrected, lifting her head slowly, syrup glistening on her skin like war paint as Zoey was wiping it off.
“Why do they always interrupt our snacking?” Rumi growled, dragging a hand down her face in exasperation. Her fingers smeared faint traces of chip grease across her cheek, but she didn’t care. Across from her, Zoey was furiously crunching on fry chips, each bite louder than the last, her jaw working like a machine fueled by rage and salt.
“They will face my wrath!” Zoey declared, voice garbled through a mouthful of crumbs. Her eyes blazed with righteous fury, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk mid-battle cry.
Rumi sighed, long and theatrical, the kind of sigh that carried years of dealing with supernatural nonsense and snack-related sabotage. She rolled her eyes, then pushed herself to her feet with the grace of someone who’d done this dance too many times. Behind her, Luna, Mira, and Zoey huddled together on the couch, arms crossed, expressions sour. They looked like a trio of disgruntled cats denied their treats.
Rumi stepped forward, her stance firm, her voice sharp. “Um, excuse me?” she called out, directing her words toward the stewardess who was still—still—watering the wilted plant with coffee. The pot was nearly empty now, the soil a soggy mess of bitterness and decay.
The stewardess turned slowly, her movements too smooth, too rehearsed. Her smile stretched across her face like a mask—wide, pristine, and just a little too perfect. “Please take your seat,” she said, cutting Rumi off before she could finish. Her voice was syrupy sweet, but hollow. Like a recording played one too many times.
Rumi didn’t flinch.
“Yeah, no,” she said, shaking her head, her hands settling on her hips in a stance that screamed leader. “We don’t have time.” Her eyes narrowed, gaze locked onto the stewardess with laser precision. “You’re a demon, right?”
The stewardess froze.
It was subtle—just a flicker of tension in her shoulders, a microsecond of hesitation. Her smile didn’t falter, but her voice did. “W-what do you mean?” she asked, the first syllable trembling before she caught herself. Her posture straightened, her tone smoothing out again, but it was too late.
“You’re smiling all weird, watering plants with coffee, and those guys?” Rumi listed off, her voice sharp and incredulous as she gestured toward the other flight attendants with a sweeping motion. Her hand cut through the air like a blade, pointing out each absurdity with surgical precision. “Come on.”
Her tone wasn’t angry—it was tired. The kind of tired that came from dealing with supernatural nonsense before breakfast. The kind of tired that made you question whether you were cursed or just really, really unlucky.
Luna blinked, her curiosity tugging her forward as she leaned over the armrest to peer into the jet’s control center. Her eyes scanned the console—and then froze.
The demon at the helm wasn’t piloting. She was playing. Her fingers danced across the buttons with no discernible pattern, pressing them at random like a child mashing keys on a toy piano. One hand yanked a lever, then another, then pushed it back again. Lights blinked. Alarms chirped. Nothing made sense.
Luna’s stomach dropped. How in the actual fuck had they made it this far without crashing? Was this jet flying on vibes alone?
“Oh,” the female demon laughed nervously, her voice high and brittle. “We were just—”
She didn’t get to finish.
Rumi stepped forward with the grace of someone who’d had enough. Her hand shot out, grabbing the demon’s arm and yanking it into view with practiced ease. The demon grunted, caught off guard, her body jerking slightly as Rumi held her wrist aloft like evidence in a courtroom.
“Oh, look!” Rumi said, voice dripping with mock cheer as she waved the demon’s arm for the others to see. Her eyes gleamed with vindication. “Patterns.”
Etched into the demon’s skin were unmistakable markings—twisting, violet sigils that shimmered faintly under the cabin lights. They pulsed like they were alive, like they recognized they’d been exposed.
The demon’s smile stretched wider, too wide, her teeth gleaming in a way that felt wrong. “Oh, these?” she said, voice lilting with forced innocence. “These are just…”
Rumi didn’t wait for another excuse.
With a sharp stomp, her boot came down hard on the demon’s foot. The stewardess shrieked, stumbling backward as a burst of purple smoke exploded around her like a ruptured spell. The illusion shattered instantly. Her human disguise peeled away in wisps of magic, revealing her true form—twisted, jagged, and grotesque, with skin that shimmered like bruised metal and eyes that glowed too bright to be kind.
Luna flinched, her breath catching as she stared. No matter how many times they dealt with demons, it never failed to shock her just how ugly they could get. Not just physically—but spiritually. There was something hollow in their eyes, something that made her skin crawl.
The other flight attendants followed suit, their glamours dissolving in bursts of smoke and flickering light. One by one, their human masks dropped, revealing snarled horns, warped limbs, and skin etched with glowing sigils. The cabin filled with the scent of sulfur and scorched sugar.
“The rest of you can come out,” Rumi called, her voice steady, hands still planted on her hips like she was scolding a group of misbehaving interns. “We’re in a hurry.”
“Please,” Luna added, still chewing on a syrupy pancake as she rose to her feet. She stepped beside Rumi, licking a bit of syrup from her thumb with casual defiance. Zoey joined her on the other side, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Mira took her place at Rumi’s left, her stance calm but coiled, like a blade waiting to be drawn.
The demons emerged from every corner of the cabin—from behind curtains, beneath serving carts, even from the cockpit. Each one uglier than the last, their forms more distorted, more desperate to intimidate. Luna blinked as she spotted the pilot—also a demon—slumped in the captain’s chair, claws still resting on the controls.
Which meant no one was flying the jet.
Of course.
“Oh, you got the patterns,” Mira murmured, her voice soft, almost sympathetic. Her eyes flicked to the glowing sigils on the stewardess’s arm, the ones Rumi had exposed earlier. For a moment, she looked almost wistful. Then her head tilted slightly to the side, and her voice dropped into something cold and final. “Now you gotta die.”
“The only ones dying tonight are your—” the demon began, voice low and menacing, his claws twitching with theatrical flair as he stepped forward to deliver what was clearly meant to be a dramatic threat.
But Mira interrupted him with a thunderous burp.
She slammed her fist into her chest mid-release, forcing the sound out like a battle cry. Her eyes didn’t even flicker toward the demon—she was too focused on relieving the pressure building in her gut from the half-eaten snacks.
The demon faltered, blinking once, thrown off by the sudden sonic blast.
Luna’s stomach gave a loud, ominous rumble. She slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with alarm. “Oh no…” she whispered, voice muffled by her palm. Her body curled slightly inward, the regret of speed-eating an entire buffet of carbs hitting her like a freight train.
“Uh, I said,” the demon tried again, his tone wobbling as he attempted to regain control of the moment. “The only ones dying tonight are your—”
Luna let out a belch so loud it echoed off the cabin walls.
It was deep, guttural, and unapologetic. She groaned immediately after, clutching her stomach with both hands as the pressure doubled. Her face twisted in discomfort, the urge to find a bathroom now urgent and non-negotiable. The jet’s luxurious interior suddenly felt like a trap.
Across from her, Zoey was hunched over, one hand gripping her chest as she tried to burp out the gas building inside her. Her eyes were watering, her jaw clenched. Rumi wasn’t faring much better—her stomach gurgled audibly, the sound wet and threatening, and she winced as she pressed a hand to her abdomen.
The demon stared at them, his expression shifting from fury to disbelief to mild horror.
“Your fans!” he finally snapped, voice cracking with frustration. “We’re gonna eat your fans!”
The girls all straightened at once, their postures rising like a tide of defiance. The demon’s words—we’re gonna eat your fans—hung in the air like a foul stench, and the reaction was immediate. Shared glances passed between them, eyes wide with disbelief, then narrowing with offense. Their expressions shifted from stunned to absolutely not in the span of a heartbeat.
“Whoa,” Zoey breathed, her voice sharp with incredulity. Her brows shot up, mouth falling open slightly as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.
“No,” Rumi said flatly, her face scrunching in visible disgust. Her tone was clipped, final, like she was swatting away the very idea. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her stance firm and unyielding.
“No thank you,” Zoey scoffed, recovering quickly as she waved her hands in front of her like she was warding off a curse. Her fingers fluttered with exaggerated flair, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “Take that bad energy elsewhere.”
“No, no, no,” Mira huffed, her voice low and steady, but laced with quiet fury. She shook her head slowly, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes didn’t blink.
“How dare you?” Luna gasped, her voice rising with genuine offense. Her face fell into a look of pure disgust, brows furrowed, lips curled. She stepped forward slightly, her body tense, protective.
The cabin fell silent.
The demons faltered.
Their leader’s face dropped, the smugness draining away as he took in the sight of the four girls staring him down—shoulders squared, eyes blazing, united in their fury. There was no fear in their expressions. Only fire.
“Not our fans,” Rumi said, her voice low but laced with steel. Her lips twitched into a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She planted her hands on her hips, elbows flared, her stance wide and unyielding. It was the kind of posture that said try us.
Zoey stepped in beside her, arms crossing slowly over her chest like she was locking something in place—anger, maybe, or the promise of retaliation. “When you mess with our fans…” she trailed off, letting the silence stretch, her gaze sharp and unblinking. The threat hung in the air, unfinished but unmistakable.
Mira cracked her knuckles one by one, the sound sharp in the quiet. Her smirk was colder than Rumi’s, more deliberate. “We need to make it hurt,” she said, almost gently. But her eyes gleamed with something dangerous—something that didn’t mind getting messy.
Luna stepped forward last, her movements fluid, wrists rolling like she was warming up for something more than words. Her voice was calm, almost disappointed. “You don’t bring our fans into these things.” She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.
The honmoon responded.
It pulsed around them, a shimmer of energy that surged outward like a heartbeat. The jet beneath their feet vibrated with it, the blue lines etched into its surface flaring to life, racing along the metal like veins.
“Ugh, you came at a bad time,” Rumi sang, her voice laced with mockery and heat. She tilted her head, eyes gleaming, her tone playful but edged with warning. “But you just crossed the line.” She stepped forward, her hands surging out like she was casting a spell—or throwing down a gauntlet. “You wanna get wild?” Her smirk sharpened. “Okay, I’ll show you wild.”
The moment cracked open.
The trio flanking her didn’t hesitate. Her words were the cue, the ignition. In perfect sync, they launched into motion.
Luna was the first to strike—her body a blur of orange hair and fury. She moved with honed precision, her fist slicing through the air and connecting with the demon’s jaw in a sickening crunch. The impact sent it staggering backward, limbs flailing, smoke curling from its skin as it reeled from the blow.
Mira followed, her movements fluid and brutal. She leapt into the air, twisting mid-flight like a dancer mid-spin, her boot arcing downward with lethal grace. It collided with her target’s chest, driving the demon to the ground with a thud that echoed through the cabin. She landed lightly, already pivoting for the next strike.
Zoey was fire and water—unpredictable, relentless. She caught her demon’s arm mid-swing, ducked beneath it, and spun upward in one seamless motion. Her legs snapped around its neck, locking tight. With a grunt and a twist of her hips, she slammed it down hard, the demon’s body hitting the floor with a sharp crack.
Rumi didn’t break stride.
While the others handled the chaos behind her, she strode toward the water station, her steps deliberate, her energy pulsing. She held up a single finger toward the demon captain, who watched her with wide, twitching eyes. “Better come right,” she muttered, filling the container with practiced ease. “Better luck trying gettin’ to our level. ’Cause you might die, never the time.”
The water hissed as it filled, steam curling upward like a warning.
Then she flipped.
Her body twisted mid-air, feet slamming into the captain’s chest with explosive force. The demon flew backward, crashing into the wall with a roar. Rumi landed hard, her boots crunching against the floor as she pivoted and dropped onto another demon with surgical precision.
“Tryin’ to start a battle!” she spat, her voice lethal.
“Bleeding isn’t in my blood! Ppyeosokbuteo dallaseo!” Mira sang, her voice slicing through the chaos like a blade dipped in glitter and defiance.
Rumi didn’t miss a beat. She hurled the water pitcher toward her with a flick of her wrist, the container spinning midair like a baton in a battle ballet.
Mira caught it one-handed, her body already pivoting. “Beating you is what I do, do, do, yeah!” she belted, and then—without ceremony—she slammed the pitcher into the face of the demon pinned beneath her. The impact echoed, a wet crunch followed by a hiss of steam as the demon’s body began to dissolve. She didn’t linger. With a practiced toss, she sent the pitcher flying toward Zoey.
Zoey snatched it mid-spin, her body already in motion. She twirled the container like a weapon, knocking back the demons that dared to close in. Her movements were fluid, almost flirtatious—hips swaying, eyes gleaming. “Body on body,” she sang, voice low and wicked. “I’m naughty, not even sorry!”
She poured the hot water into her ramyeon cup with exaggerated care, steam curling upward like incense in a temple of chaos. Her grip was firm. Her gaze never left the fight.
Luna flipped overhead, her silhouette framed by flickering lights and the blur of wings. She landed with precision—feet planting on a demon’s shoulders before she kicked it away like she was launching off a trampoline. She dropped onto another, pinning it to the ground with a grunt, her knees locking its arms down.
Without looking, she extended her cup toward Zoey, fingers steady despite the tremble in the air. Zoey filled it, their movements synchronized like a ritual—no words, just trust.
All around them, demons snarled and lunged, but the girls moved like a unit. Every strike, every pour, every glance was choreographed. Not a single drop of water spilled. Their ramyeon was sacred. Their rhythm, unbreakable.
“When you pull up, I’ll pull up,” they rapped in unison, voices rising like a war chant. “A little late to the party!” They stood back to back, steam rising from their cups, shoulders brushing, eyes locked on the chaos around them.“Nah, nah, nah, nah!”
“Locked, loaded, born for this!” Zoey rapped, voice sharp and gleeful as she spun toward the table, her boots skidding slightly on the scorched floor. Mira and Luna followed close behind, their movements light, almost giddy—like the fight had cracked open something electric inside them. They clutched their ramyeon cups like trophies, steam rising in delicate curls.
But before any of them could dig in, Rumi intercepted.
She snatched the cups with a dancer’s grace and a general’s authority, holding them aloft like sacred relics. Her finger jabbed toward the instructions printed on the side—three minutes. No exceptions.
“No point in avoiding it! Annoyed a bit? Bureul bichwo! Da bikyeo, ne apgireul ppaetgyeo!”
The trio froze, caught between hunger and obedience. They shared a look—one part betrayal, one part resigned camaraderie. Then, with synchronized sighs, they placed their cups gently on the table, like offerings to a ritual they didn’t fully understand but had no choice but to honor.
The fight wasn’t over.
Steam hissed. The air shimmered with tension.
Luna stepped forward, her expression shifting from pouty hunger to quiet resolve. Her fingers brushed the counter beside her, slow and deliberate, like she was drawing a memory from the surface. The honmoon responded instantly—her double-sided scythe materialized in a flash of blue light, humming with latent power.
“Knocking you out like a lullaby,” she sang, voice soft and eerie, like a siren calling ships to shore.
She gripped the scythe, spun once, and swung. The blade sliced through the largest demon with effortless grace, its body splitting like mist. The remaining demons stumbled backward, their snarls faltering, eyes wide with something close to reverence.
“Hear that sound ringing in your mind!” Luna finished, her voice echoing through the room like a bell tolling at midnight.
“Better sit down for the show!” Rumi shouted, voice sharp as a cymbal crash, her boots hitting the floor with deliberate force.
The four girls advanced in formation—shoulders squared, weapons gleaming, eyes locked on the final wave of demons. Their energy was electric, synced like a dance crew mid-routine and a battle unit mid-charge.
“’Cause I’m gonna show you how it’s done, done, done!”
They struck.
Zoey’s blade carved through the air like a whip, slicing clean through a demon’s torso. Mira spun low, her staff cracking against knees and ribs, sending limbs flying in a blur of motion. Luna vaulted over a collapsing body, her scythe trailing blue light as it tore through another. Rumi moved like thunder—her fists landing with bone-shattering precision, her voice rising with every blow.
“Huntrix don’t miss how it’s done, done, done! Hey! Huntrix don’t quit how it’s done, done, done!”
The demons didn’t stand a chance. Bodies fell in pieces, smoke curling from the wounds, the floor slick with the remnants of chaos. But the girls didn’t flinch. They were locked in—fierce, fluid, and utterly unbothered.
“Run, run, we run the town!” Luna and Rumi sang in perfect unison, backs pressed together as they spun in a tight circle. Their weapons moved like extensions of their bodies—slashing, blocking, striking in rhythm. The choreography was intimate, protective. Every movement said: I’ve got you.
Then the jet lurched.
A violent jolt threw them off balance. Luna stumbled, her scythe skidding across the floor. Rumi reached out instinctively, catching her by the wrist. Their eyes met—brief, breathless—and they steadied each other just as the next wave of demons hesitated at the door.
“Whole world playing our sound!”
But then—
Disaster.
Their ramyeon cups, perched precariously nearby, launched into the air like startled birds. Time seemed to slow. Steam spiraled upward. Noodles tumbled mid-flight.
All four girls turned in horror, eyes wide, mouths open in a collective gasp.
“No—no—no—no—!”
They bolted.
Weapons forgotten, demons ignored, they dove for their food like it was the last sacred thing in the world. Zoey caught hers with a spin and a squeal. Mira slid across the floor, cradling her cup like a newborn. Luna snatched hers mid-air with a triumphant yell. Rumi caught hers upside down, flipped it mid-motion, and landed in a crouch.
“Turning up, it’s going down!”
The four girls exchanged glances—silent, loaded, and laced with disbelief. Ramyeon cups in hand, they moved toward the fractured windows, steam curling upward like incense in a temple of disaster.
Luna blinked slowly, her gaze locking onto the impossible sight outside: the jet had been slashed clean in half. The other half—engines sputtering, metal shrieking—was spiraling away into the clouds like a forgotten promise. Her eyes tracked it, wide and unblinking, until something else caught her attention.
Two demons clung to the remaining wing, claws embedded deep, muscles straining as they began to rip it off piece by piece. The metal groaned, the wind howled, and the cabin trembled beneath their feet.
The hunters stepped forward, one by one, into the gaping wound where the jet wall used to be. They stared out into the open sky, their expressions a collage of staging: Mira’s resigned sigh, Zoey’s raised brow, Luna’s slow-motion horror, and Rumi’s quiet fury.
“Huntrix show this—how it’s done, done, done!” they sang, voices flat with irony, like a battle cry delivered at a funeral.
“Yeah, this plane’s trashed,” Mira muttered, still cradling her steaming ramyeon like it was the only thing tethering her to reality.
Luna groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “This is the third plane in the past two months. Bobby’s gonna start asking where they’re going…”
She trailed off.
Because just then, the internal timer in her mind went off—three minutes. The sacred threshold. Her eyes lit up with sudden clarity, and she dug into her ramyeon like the world hadn’t just split in half. The first bite hit her taste buds like a balm, and she practically melted, knees softening, shoulders dropping.
The others followed suit.
No hesitation. No ceremony. Just slurping.
Steam rose around them like a protective shield. Outside, the demons clawed and shrieked. Inside, the girls devoured their noodles with reverence, their sighs of delight echoing through the broken cabin like a hymn.
Then Rumi stood.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, stepped toward the jagged wall, and reached out. With one clean motion, she ripped the door off its hinges and tossed it aside like it was made of paper.
“Okay,” she said, voice low and steady. “Let’s do this.” She turned, eyes gleaming. “Something about when you come for the crown that’s so humbling.”
The four hunters locked eyes—no words, just the silent agreement that whatever came next, they were doing it together. Then, without hesitation, they leapt from the fractured jet, bodies slicing through the wind like arrows dipped in glitter and vengeance.
Mira led the descent, her voice rising like a battle hymn. “Gapiagi wai geurae? Meonjeo geondeuryeo Wae? Ijeya pogi hae, what?” Her tone was sharp, defiant, laced with the ache of confrontation and the thrill of the fall.
Below them, the other half of the jet spun in slow chaos, metal groaning, demons clinging to its surface like parasites. The sky was a battlefield, and they were the storm.
“Run up, you’re done up! From sun up to sundown, so come play!” Zoey rapped, her voice slicing through the wind as she twisted midair, twin pistols drawn. She fired with precision, each shot sending demons scrambling in horror, their claws slipping as they tried to hold onto the jet’s shredded frame.
Rumi was next—heels first.
She slammed her foot into the chest of the massive demon that had once been the pilot, the impact sending shockwaves through the fuselage. The creature roared, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she floated for a moment, midair, checking her outfit with practiced ease.
“Won either way, one in a million—we kill! Want it?” she sang, voice sultry and lethal. Then, with a wink: “Okay! Heels, nails, blade, mascara!”
She adjusted her collar, flicked a speck of ash off her sleeve, and spun into her next strike.
Meanwhile, Mira had landed—gracefully, absurdly—on the back of a demon mid-flight. She sat like she was on a throne, legs crossed, one hand gripping its horn for balance. With the other, she pulled out a brush—stolen from Luna, of course—and began brushing her dark pink hair with slow, deliberate strokes.
“Fit check for my napalm era!” she sang, voice dripping with irony and glamor.
“Need to beat my face,” Zoey sang, voice lilting with mischief as she dangled upside down, legs hooked around the neck of a snarling demon mid-flight. Her grip was effortless, her focus absolute. In one hand, she held a compact palette; in the other, a brush she wielded like a wand. She dabbed blush onto the demon’s cheekbones with surgical precision.
“Make it cute and savage! Mirror, mirror on my phone—who’s the baddest?”
The demon blinked, confused. Zoey winked, blew it a kiss, and shoved it away with a flick of her heel.
Luna caught the mirror mid-air, her fingers closing around it like it was part of her choreography. She angled it toward her face, checking her lip gloss with practiced ease. Her reflection shimmered against the backdrop of chaos—wind whipping her hair, the stadium lights flickering in the distance.
“Us? Hello!” she sang, voice smooth and smug.
She tossed the mirror behind her. It shattered midair, and in the same breath, her scythe summoned with a flash of honmoon light. She spun, blade slicing through the demon that had dared to approach, her lip gloss still flawless.
Then came the chorus.
“Knocking you out like a lullaby!” the four girls sang in unison, voices rising like a war chant wrapped in velvet.
They shot toward the stadium, bodies trailing smoke and light, chasing the demons that descended like shadows toward the crowd below. Their fans were sacred. Untouchable. And the girls would not let a single claw reach them.
“Hear that sound ringing in your mind! Better sit down for the show!”
Below, the crowd erupted.
“It’s them!” fans screamed, pointing skyward as the four silhouettes streaked across the sky like falling stars. Phones lit up. Cheers echoed. The air pulsed with anticipation.
“’Cause I’m gonna show you!” Mira belted, her voice soaring with confidence, cutting through the wind like a blade.
“I’m gonna show you!” Zoey chimed in, playful and bright, her grin wide as she flipped midair.
“I’m gonna show you!” Luna echoed, her tone soft and siren-like, casting a spell over the crowd.
“How it’s done, done, done!” Rumi sang, her voice low and lethal as they landed in perfect formation.
Smoke curled around their boots, casting long shadows across the stage. The crowd roared. The demons hesitated.
“I don’t talk, I bite! Full of venom!” Mira sang, voice sharp and sizzling as she lunged forward, her blade plunging into the nearest demon with brutal precision. Her eyes gleamed, lips curled into a smirk as the creature hissed and crumbled beneath her. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. She was already turning toward the next.
Luna spun into view, her scythe slicing through the air like silk on fire. “Spittin’ facts! You know that’s how it’s done, done, done!” she sang, her voice smooth and radiant, a siren’s call wrapped in steel.
She held her mic in one hand, weapon in the other, moving with effortless grace. As her scythe vanished in a shimmer of honmoon light, she crouched low at the edge of the stage, her grin wide and wicked. A fan pointed a camera at her—she winked, lips glossy, eyes gleaming with mischief.
Then Zoey dropped to one knee, mic gripped tight, her voice rising like a spark ready to ignite.
“Okay, I know I ramble, but when shootin’ my words, I go Rambo!” she rapped, her cadence fast and fiery. “Took blood and tears to look natural! That’s how it’s done, done, done!”
Then, as if pulled by invisible strings, the four girls moved.
They strode to the back of the stage in perfect sync—heels clicking, smoke trailing, the crowd roaring behind them. Their silhouettes shimmered against the lights, each step deliberate, each glance loaded. Then they turned, making their way back to the front.
“Hear our voice unwavering till our song defeats the night,” Rumi sang, her voice rising like a tide—gentle, commanding, coaxing the crowd into stillness. The stadium pulsed with blue and violet light, a sea of souls clapping in rhythm, their energy syncing with hers like breath to heartbeat. “Making fear afraid to breathe till the dark meets the light!”
Her words hung in the air like a spell, shimmering across the crowd as the honmoon pulsed beneath their feet.
“How it’s done, done, done!” Mira, Luna, and Zoey sang in perfect unison, their voices cutting through the silence like a blade wrapped in silk. Rumi took a breath—just a split second to recover from the high note—before they all launched into choreography.
The stadium lit up in waves of honmoon blue, the light rippling outward from the stage like a heartbeat. The girls moved in sync, each step precise, each gesture loaded with intent. Their bodies told the story: fierce, fluid, unrelenting.
“Run, run, we run the town! Whole world playing our sound!”
The honmoon pulsed again—brighter, deeper. It wasn’t just light. It was presence. The souls of their fans, their memories, their devotion, woven into the very air.
“Turnin’ up, it’s goin’ down! Huntrix show this how it’s done, done, done!”
Then Luna faltered—just slightly.
Her foot missed half a beat, her gaze caught by something impossible. Gold shimmered through the blue, threading through the honmoon like sunlight breaking through ocean depths. Her eyes widened, breath catching.
The others noticed too.
Mid-verse, mid-movement, they shared glances—quick, electric. Excitement bloomed across their faces, barely contained. Their voices didn’t waver, but their smiles deepened, their energy sharpened.
“We hunt you down, down, down! We got you now, now, now! We show you how, how, how! Huntrix don’t miss how it’s done, done, done!”
The final chorus hit like a wave.
They struck their signature pose—bodies angled, eyes locked on the crowd, honmoon light casting their silhouettes in gold and blue. The audience erupted, screams and cheers rising like a storm.
But beneath the glamor, beneath the choreography, they were holding something close.
A shift.
A shimmer of something sacred.
And they weren’t just performing.
They were sealing their fate.