Chapter Text
The flash of cameras was deafening—white bursts of light exploding in every direction like fireworks trapped in a cage. Reporters called her name, a chorus of Rumi! Rumi! Over here! echoing against marble walls and velvet ropes.
Rumi smiled, the way she’d been trained to—half gentle, half detached. The diamonds on her gown caught the lights, scattering them across her skin like tiny galaxies, but she couldn’t feel any of it. The world was still a flat gray, shades of light and dark smearing together like wet charcoal. Every red carpet since Jinu’s death had been another battlefield, and tonight was no different.
She wanted to be anywhere else.
“Rumi!” A voice broke through the noise. A young woman—barely twenty’s, clutching a microphone plastered with a social media logo—beamed up at her. “Hi! Oh my gosh, thank you for stopping! I’m such a huge fan!”
Rumi tucked a loose strand of lavender hair behind her ear and offered a polite nod. “Ah, hi.”
“Is it alright if I ask you a few quick questions? My followers would love to hear from you!”
“Sure,” Rumi said softly, adjusting her posture, her tone smooth and practiced.
The reporter almost trembled with excitement. “Do you ever plan on releasing another album?”
Rumi’s lips curved faintly. “I’m not sure,” she replied. “But I can tease that there will be a single coming out before New Year’s.”
The reporter lit up. “Is that because of your late husband, Jinu?”
A pause. A flicker of something unreadable crossed Rumi’s face.
“Partially,” she said quietly, “and another part is because I’m a mother who’s focusing on her child.”
The young woman nodded, swallowing, unsure whether to push further. “Do you believe seeing in black and white again… changes your perspective on music?”
Rumi’s expression softened with something bittersweet. “It changes my perspective on the world,” she said. “People often forget Jinu and I were childhood best friends before we were anything else.”
Her gaze drifted over the crowd—the reporters, the artists, the flashing cameras—and for a brief second, she could almost hear Jinu’s laugh, that teasing voice whispering in her ear: Smile, Tiger. The world’s watching.
“What will you do if you win Daesang this year?” the reporter asked.
“Put the award next to the others,” Rumi answered, her tone half-playful. “My son likes to play with them.”
The reporter chuckled nervously. “And what’s your opinion on the new idols, Mira and Zoey? They’re your biggest competition this year.”
Rumi blinked. “Who?”
“They’re right there,” the woman said, pointing down the carpet.
Rumi followed her gesture—and the world stopped.
Two figures stood at the far end of the red carpet, posing for cameras like they belonged there. For everyone else over there, they were silhouettes in grayscale to Rumi. But Zoey and Mira—
Color exploded.
The world breathed again. Her lungs caught fire, her heart lurched. The silver of Mira’s gown shimmered with warmth she hadn’t seen in two and a half years. Zoey’s dark hair glinted under the lights, hints of brown and gold. Everything—the carpet, the roses, even the champagne—was color.
Her breath hitched. A hand went to her chest.
And then both women turned.
Their eyes met.
Rumi froze. Mira’s lips parted. Zoey’s smile faltered. Horror mirrored horror. For all three, the same unthinkable realization struck at once.
Rumi turned sharply back to the reporter, masking panic with media polish.
“My opinion,” she began smoothly, “is that they’re two young artists bringing new energy to Korea’s influence on global music. They both have a strong chance tonight—and if they win, I’d like to be the first to congratulate them.” She bowed her head with perfect grace, even as her pulse thundered.
“I need to go now.”
She slipped away before the reporter could react.
Rumi’s heels clicked sharply against the marble as she spotted Abby’s tall, broad frame at the end of the carpet, finishing an interview. She walked straight to him, eyes darting, voice low.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered.
Abby immediately excused himself from the reporter. “Talk to me.”
“I need to get away from those two idols,” Rumi murmured, nodding subtly toward Mira and Zoey—both of whom were now making their way over.
Abby didn’t hesitate. “Gotcha.” He threw an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into the cameras’ view. “Smile, soldier. Let’s give them a show.”
They turned toward the photographers, posing like old friends. Rumi leaned into him, laughing softly between shots as Abby cracked jokes.
“Better?” he murmured between flashes.
“For now,” she whispered.
They stayed there until the moment passed, until the color in the air stopped feeling like suffocation.
Later that night, when Rumi was called on stage to accept her Daesang, the lights turned white-hot. She stood at the podium, the trophy gleaming in her hand. Thousands of faces stared up—gray, lifeless—except for two, sitting in the third row.
Mira and Zoey glowed like the only real things in the room.
Rumi’s voice didn’t waver. “Thank you… this award means more than I can say. To my fans, to my son, to Jinu—this is for all of you.”
Her training carried her through the speech, but her hands trembled when she left the stage.
—————
The elevator doors slid open to the smell of wealth and warm tea.
“Mama!!!”
A small blur came running—bare feet slapping against polished floors, curls bouncing.
Rumi barely had time to kneel before Ki-tae launched into her arms. “You winned! You winned, Mama!”
She laughed, spinning him once. “Of course I did, my love. I promised you I would.” She kissed his cheeks, one after another, until he was giggling uncontrollably.
Bobby appeared from the kitchen, clapping. “Look at my star! Congratulations, Rumi.” He took the award gently from her hand, setting it beside the others on the marble island. “Another Daesang for the collection.”
“Thanks, Bobby,” Rumi said, hugging him with one arm while Ki-tae clung to the other. “And thank you for watching him. I owe you dinner—again.”
Bobby chuckled. “You owe me nothing, kid. Anytime. I love my godson.” He leaned down, poking Ki-tae’s chubby cheek.
“I wuv you too, G-pops,” Ki-tae said, snuggling against his mother’s neck.
Bobby smiled softly, eyes flicking over Rumi’s tired face. “You good?”
“I’m fine,” she lied, voice gentle. “Go home—you’ve done more than enough tonight.”
“Goodnight, my star… and my future star,” he said with a wink, walking toward the elevator.
“Goodnight, Bobby…”
“Ni’ ni’, G-pops!!” Ki-tae shouted after him, waving.
Rumi chuckled, bouncing him on her hip. “What do you say I shower, then we binge-watch Studio Ghibli movies, eat fruit, and drink tea?”
Ki-tae’s eyes went wide. “Yesh!” he squealed.
“Then it’s a date,” Rumi said, carrying him upstairs.
The black spiral staircase opened to her bedroom—she moved to the master bathe a cathedral of glass and moonlight. Rumi set Ki-tae down on the vanity counter.
“Can I sit inna sink, Mama? I sing while you show’er!”
“How could I say no to that face?” she said, kissing his forehead.
While Rumi undressed and stepped into the steaming shower, Ki-tae sat in Jinu’s old sink, humming tunelessly and pressing buttons on an old cologne bottle.
When she emerged, wrapped in a hoodie and sweatpants, he reached for her impatiently. “Mamaaaa, up!”
“One second, my love.” She finished her skincare, brushing her teeth before lifting him into her arms.
“I missed you,” Ki-tae mumbled, resting his head against her shoulder.
“I missed you more.”
Downstairs, Derpy’s massive form sprawled across the living room rug. His tail flicked lazily as they entered.
“Hi, Derp Slurp…” Rumi whispered, scratching under his chin.
The tiger huffed softly, leaning into her touch.
“Derpy missed you,” Ki-tae said sleepily.
“I missed him too.”
Rumi turned on the TV, scrolling through the menu until a familiar animation filled the screen. She sank into the couch, Ki-tae in her lap, Derpy curling protectively around them both.
For the first time that night, Rumi exhaled.
The world was still colorless—except for the ghosts that haunted her mind.
And two faces she couldn’t stop seeing.