Chapter Text
Mystery rarely spoke, but he noticed everything.
From beneath the veil of his periwinkle bangs, he observed the micro expressions fans made when meeting their idols—nervous fingers, darting eyes, held breath. It was always the same cocktail of awe and adrenaline. He’d gotten used to it.
But he wasn’t used to her.
Zoey, youngest member of Huntrix, sat beside him in a riot of emotions she could barely mask. One moment she was crossing her arms and looking away, chin high and annoyed. The next, she was shooting him furtive glances like he was a forbidden snack on a cheat day.
Mystery sipped from his water bottle slowly, partly to cool his rising body temperature -he’d been stuck in that damn sleeping bag all night - and partly to keep from smirking. He knew what he was doing. He just wouldn’t admit it out loud.
His peripheral vision picked up a subtle movement.
Zoey side-eyed his water bottle.
Then quickly looked away.
Then back again.
And again.
Ah. She was thirsty.
The fan event had stretched on for hours under the blazing lights. Baby had already chugged down all the water bottles on their end of the table. All the Huntrix girls were flagging, but Rumi had a caffeine stash and Mira had attitude-fuelled adrenaline. Zoey, though? She was starting to wilt.
Mystery, never one to make a scene, gently pushed the bottle toward her across the table.
Zoey blinked, looking at the bottle. Then at him.
He tilted his head minutely, a quiet offer.
“…I’m fine,” she muttered, waving him off.
He said nothing.
Five seconds passed.
Ten.
Then—
“Oh, screw it,” she grumbled, grabbing the bottle and unscrewing the cap. “If I die of demon saliva, I’m blaming you.”
She took a long drink. And another.
Abby, who sat on Mystery’s other side, blinked in disbelief.
“Did you two just share a water bottle?” he choked, scandalised.
Zoey lowered the bottle slowly, lips glistening.
Her eyes narrowed. “It’s just water.”
“It’s demon water,” Abby hissed.
Mystery’s lips quirked. Barely.
Zoey turned back toward him, bottle in hand. “Don’t get used to this,” she said, cheeks faintly pink. “I’m still not your fan.”
Mystery lifted one shoulder in a languid half-shrug.
Liar, he thought, watching as she wiped the rim with the hem of her pants’ pocket, clearly flustered.
Abby, ever the agent of chaos, leaned in between them and whispered, “Should I leave you two alone? Or should I bring you another straw?”
Mystery’s brow twitched. Zoey groaned.
“Can someone duct tape Abby’s mouth shut?” she snapped.
“I mean, sharing a drink… that’s practically a K-drama confession scene,” Abby continued with a teasing grin. “I’m just saying.”
Zoey fumed and turned her attention back to the fan currently standing in front of them—an older woman with a homemade Huntrix banner and matching nail polish. She quickly composed herself and offered her signature with practiced sweetness, but her hands were still a little shaky. Her eyes kept flickering back to the bottle sitting in front of her.
She eventually pushed it back toward Mystery, their fingers briefly brushing.
And for all his careful silence, Mystery was no stone.
There was heat.
Undeniable. Unspoken. But there.
He leaned back in his seat, brushing his bangs aside just enough for Zoey to glimpse one eye—dark, unreadable, but fixed on her.
She looked like she was about to combust.
The next fan stepped forward—a guy in his twenties clutching a handmade collage and visibly shaking. The distraction was welcome, but not nearly enough to stop the thrum beneath Mystery’s skin.
Zoey thought she was in control of her image. But he could see her crumbling edges.
And now she’d shared his water bottle.
Mystery folded his hands under the table, gaze calm, even as his pulse betrayed him.
Abby leaned in again and said in a low voice, “You guys know fan cams are going to pick that up, right?”
Zoey nearly choked.
“OH MY GOD.”
Mystery simply smiled—barely.
The kind of smile that said:
Let them watch.
*
The noise at the fan event was deafening. Screams ricocheted off the high ceiling. Flashbulbs popped. Paper hearts fluttered from signs like confetti. Yet somehow, Mystery tuned it all out.
He sat at the middle of the table, bangs veiling most of his face, head tilted just slightly downward as he signed photo cards in smooth, sweeping strokes. His stillness was eerie, his calm untouched by the chaos. The fans called it part of his allure. The stillness. The silence. The control.
He wasn’t paying attention to Abby’s bad jokes or Romance’s endless flirting with Mira. He completely ignored Rumi stomping Jinu’s foot (he was 100% sure he totally deserved it). He certainly wasn’t watching Baby mug for the cameras. But Zoey? He always knew where she was. She was sitting right next to him after all.
Her signature twin buns bounced every time she nodded to a fan. She was practiced and polite, smile tight but still warm enough to pass. Her American-trained professionalism was a thing to behold - sharp and untouchable. Nothing like most Korean girls in Seoul.
Until that guy.
The next fan in her line was tall, older, maybe late twenties. He wore a smug grin and a vintage Huntrix hoodie from their pre-debut days, like it gave him seniority. Mystery watched with growing unease as the guy leaned forward, elbows on the table, too close.
"Zoey," he said, dragging out her name like they were on intimate terms. "Could you sign this... and maybe add your number?"
Zoey blinked. Her smile faltered.
He wasn’t done.
"Or just a little kiss right here?"
He tapped the corner of the photo card, and then his cheek.
Zoey laughed. Light. Practiced. Sharp.
"That’s sweet. But no."
Mystery was already rising.
The guy chuckled. "C'mon. You idols love attention, right? You put yourselves on stage for us. It’s part of the deal."
Zoey’s smile was still in place, but her eyes—they changed. Flat. Cold.
Abby glanced over, sensing the shift. But before he could intervene—
A low, guttural growl ripped through the air.
The fan froze.
So did Zoey.
Mystery leaned across the table, body angled between Zoey and the guy, his bangs still obscuring his eyes. His calm demeanour had been replaced by a scowl and his posture challenging.
The growl grew into loud frenzied barking. The sound - sharp and animal and real - hung in the air like smoke after a firework.
Security began to step forward.
The fan looked back, startled, then tried to laugh it off. "Uh... okay? Chill, man. It was a joke."
Mystery kept leaning forward, almost as if he was about to leap across the table to tackle the fan.
Zoey recovered first. She turned toward him and smacked his head with her pen.
"No! Bad Saja Boy!"
Gasps. Then laughter. Fans lost it. Phones flew up. Memes were already being born.
Mystery sat back down without a word, almost obediently. He calmly reached for the next photo card, as if the whole thing hadn’t happened.
Abby leaned in, eyes wide. "Bro. Did you just bark at someone?"
Mystery didn’t answer.
Zoey glanced at him sideways. Her hands were still trembling a little as she signed the next card.
He saw it. Of course he did.
She didn’t say thank you.
He didn’t expect her to.
But her foot nudged his under the table.
Just once.
Deliberate.
A silent, wordless gesture.
And that was more than enough.
*
The fan line was thinning, just past the mid-point of the event. Mystery’s posture remained the same—back straight, eyes veiled behind his ever-present bangs, his sharpie gliding smoothly across glossy photocard after photocard. Silence clung to him like a second skin.
But then came the mousey girl.
She looked about sixteen, maybe younger, her round glasses slightly askew and her backpack nearly swallowing her small frame. Her hands clutched something—not merch, not a phone, but a pale pink paper box tied with string.
She shuffled to the table nervously, her voice barely audible over the hum of the crowd.
“Um… h-hi. I… I made something for you. For both of you.”
Zoey perked up beside Mystery, glancing curiously at the girl. Mystery’s pen paused mid-signature.
The fan hesitated before placing the box in front of them and opening it slowly. Inside were two hand-stitched plushies, one resembling Zoey with her signature twin buns and pink blush, and the other unmistakably Mystery—periwinkle bangs, stitched stoic expression, and all.
“I know I’ve never been to one of your concerts,” the girl said quickly, words spilling out now. “I’ve been saving but... I just can’t afford the tickets. But I watch all your MVs and every variety show episode you’re in. I sew while I watch. It’s like you’re there with me.”
Zoey looked genuinely touched. “These are incredible,” she said softly, picking up hers with delicate fingers.
Mystery didn’t speak, but he picked up the plush version of himself and turned it slowly in his hands. She’d even sewn a little metallic silver bead into the plush’s ear to resemble his earring.
“C-could I maybe get a picture?” the girl stammered. “Just a cute one of you two… holding the plushies?”
Zoey looked at Mystery. Her face instantly began to flush.
He didn’t move for a moment. Then, almost imperceptibly, he shifted. Lifted the plush in one hand. Turned toward Zoey with a subtle angle. The camera clicked just as his bangs moved slightly, revealing the faintest ghost of a smile.
Zoey forgot how to breathe.
Abby, one chair down, dramatically threw himself across the table. “Hold UP! Was that a SMILE?! I need ten copies of that photo immediately.”
The mousey fan giggled. “You two look really cute together.”
Zoey nearly choked on air. Mystery calmly set down the plush. He said nothing. But his pinkie finger gently tapped the edge of the photo card he was about to sign.
His version of flustered, perhaps.
The girl bowed deeply and murmured, “Thank you so much,” before moving on, still beaming.
As Zoey picked up her pen, her voice was tight. “Well. That was… unexpected.”
Mystery didn’t reply, but his plush still sat upright beside his stack of photo cards. And Zoey didn’t move hers either.
Later, both plushies would appear—just barely—in the corners of their respective dressing room selfies.
Fans would notice.
#MysteryZoeyPlushies would trend within the hour.
*
Mystery has always been built for endurance.
He could handle long exhausting rehearsals, gruelling tours, and fans screaming so loud his eardrums rattled. He could handle the spotlights, the cameras, the parasocial devotion of millions. What he wasn’t built for was sitting at a folding table for four hours while hunched fangirls threw plushies, letters, and sometimes undergarments at his face (seriously?!).
And he definitely wasn’t built for Zoey crashing into him like a felled tree.
It happened just after 3pm, somewhere between the fan with glitter in her eyelashes and the one sobbing uncontrollably over Baby’s signature. Mystery had just leaned down to retrieve a small gift bag someone had dropped - he moved with fluid, precise grace, like a panther retrieving its prey - and was rising back up when:
Wham.
Zoey pitched sideways in a spectacular loss of motor control. She’d been laughing at something Mira said to Abby - probably at his expense - and tipped backward on her folding chair. She caught herself too late, reached wildly –
- and slammed right into his side.
Mystery grunted.
Her shoulder hit his ribs. Her elbow landed in his lap.
And then, somehow, she was in his space, clinging to his forearm and hissing, “Oh my god, I didn’t mean to - don’t look at me - I swear - ”
Baby was rolling his eyes next to her. “Are you for real? You’re seriously the biggest klutz.”
Zoey tried to detangle herself, but the more she struggled, the more entangled she became. Her arm band pouch caught on his vest button. Her hair brushed his neck.
Mystery sat still. A statue. A cursedly aware statue.
She was warm. That was the problem.
Warm and soft and somehow impossibly real in a way most humans weren’t allowed to be. Her weight pressed into his side as she tried to regain balance, and when she finally yanked herself upright, cheeks flaming, her fingers accidentally curled into the sleeve of his jacket for half a second too long.
“Sorry,” she muttered, avoiding eye contact like it was a sin.
He glanced at her—just once—and said nothing.
Because if he did say something, it might be:
You smell like strawberries and stage sweat and I don’t hate it.
Or worse:
Crash into me again. Just for a second. Just long enough to believe this might be real.
Instead, he dusted his lap off like nothing had happened and offered a practiced, neutral expression to the next fan stepping up to the table.
Zoey didn’t speak for five whole minutes after that. Which for her was like… geological silence.
Abby leaned across her side and whispered loudly, “Is that your mating ritual now, Zoey? Launching yourself into mysterious men?”
Zoey elbowed her. “I tripped.”
Mystery could hear the heat in her voice. Embarrassment, yes—but also something else. Awareness.
He looked straight ahead. Not because he didn’t want to look at her. But because if he did—and caught her looking at him the way she had during that half-second of impact—he wasn’t sure what he’d do with it.
The day wore on. Mystery’s back ached. His wrist was beginning to cramp from signing his name in seven different marker styles. But what lingered wasn’t the exhaustion.
It was that moment.
Zoey hadn’t so much as looked at him since. But he could feel her presence like static at the edge of a radio station—just a turn of the dial away from something electric.
Their shoulders occasionally brushed when they moved. She flinched every time. He didn’t.
Then, finally, during a lull between fans, she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear:
“Next time I fall, try not to be built like a damn wall.”
He exhaled a laugh through his nose.
Quiet. Barely audible.
But real.
Zoey didn’t look at him, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward.
Maybe it was a truce.
Maybe it was something more.
But Mystery—silent, watchful, unknowable Mystery—decided not to overthink it.
After all, sometimes a crash was just a crash.
And sometimes…
It was how stars began to collide.
*
Mystery liked his bangs.
They were a barrier. A curtain. A perfect way to exist in plain sight without really being there. People could project whatever they wanted onto him, and he could avoid the weight of meeting every curious and adoring gaze head-on. For a demon idol constantly under scrutiny, that mattered. At least it did to him.
Which was why, halfway through the Huntrix–Saja Boys joint fan event, the question hit like an unexpected cymbal crash:
“Hey,” a fan said brightly, sliding a Huntrix-Saja collab photocard across the table. “Ever thought of cutting those bangs? We want to see the face!”
The line rippled with chuckles. Even a few camera phones tilted upward, ready to catch his response.
Mystery didn’t answer. He just tilted his head slightly- his usual silent tactic - letting the bangs slide even further down, shielding his eyes. It usually ended things. People laughed, said, “Classic Mystery,” and moved on.
But not today.
Because Zoey, who had been casually signing for another fan, suddenly froze mid-autograph, her pen pausing on the glossy card.
“No!” she blurted, spinning towards the questioner with way too much energy. “They’re iconic.”
The fan blinked, startled. “Uh…”
“He’s Mystery,” Zoey continued, cheeks slightly pink but voice firm. “You’re not supposed to see all of him. That’s the point.”
There was a short silence. Then the fan grinned sheepishly. “Fair enough. I mean, it is kind of mysterious.”
He laughed and moved down the line, clearly amused but harmless, leaving Zoey still half-turned toward Mystery, clutching her pen like a weapon she hadn’t realized she’d drawn.
Mystery tilted his head toward her. Just slightly. Enough to shift the bangs, revealing the corner of one sharp, silver-gray eye.
Her lips parted, like she’d forgotten what air was.
He didn’t smile—he never smiled on stage or at events. It was part of the act. But something about her impulsive defense, her insistence that his identity mattered exactly as it was, tugged at the corner of his mouth. A twitch. Barely there.
And that’s when Abby leaned over.
“Oh my god,” Abby whispered theatrically, one hand shielding the corner of his mouth like he was trying to keep a state secret. “Did you just blush?”
Mystery slowly turned his head toward him. One very deliberate movement. Bangs shifting again, just enough to uncover another slice of expression—a look that could curdle milk.
“No,” he said flatly. One word.
It was enough to make Abby snicker. Loudly. “You did. You totally did. Bro, you’ve been stonewalling fans, and one Huntrix girl and a bang joke—bam. Red ears. Someone clip this.”
Zoey, now definitely red-faced, whipped around in her chair and hissed, “Shut up, Abby!”
Abby grinned like he’d won the lottery. “I’m just saying—”
“Shut. Up.” She stabbed her pen down on the next card with enough force to almost puncture it.
The next fan in line blinked at the tension. “Uh… group photo?”
Mystery silently slid the photo card back toward the fan, posed for the picture, and went back to neutral without missing a beat. But his ears were warm. And he hated—no, loathed—that Abby had noticed.
The rest of the fan event moved on, but something in the air felt… altered.
Zoey didn’t look at him after that, not directly. But she also didn’t talk to him the way she had earlier, with little sarcastic jabs and side comments. Instead, she was quiet, borderline shy, a version of Zoey Mystery had only seen off-stage in passing.
And he? He found himself oddly aware of her every move. The way her fingers tapped when she was restless. How she bit her lip when she concentrated too hard on a signature. He’d noticed before, sure—but this time it felt… sharper.
Maybe it was because she’d defended him. Not out of obligation, but instinct. The kind of instinct that came from caring.
In between fans, Mystery was switching out his markers when Abby leaned in again, voice just above a whisper:
“You know she likes you, right?”
Mystery didn’t answer.
“Like, likes you. You’re all mysterious and aloof, and then she goes and—bam—white knight defence mode about your bangs.”
Mystery zipped his case slowly, deliberately, before glancing up just long enough for Abby to catch the glint of one eye.
“Drop it,” Mystery said softly.
Abby raised his hands. “Fine, fine. Still, for a guy who doesn’t talk, you just said more words in one afternoon than you have all week.”
Mystery ignored him.
Because he was busy replaying Zoey’s voice in his head: He’s Mystery. You’re not supposed to see all of him.
Like she got it. Like she got him.
He hated how much that mattered.
And loved it too.