Chapter Text
Bobby strutted toward the long table where the three members of Huntrix were stretching out their arms and cracking their knuckles. Mira stretched her arms overhead on each side with the focus of someone prepping for battle. Zoey nervously pulled back her hands to loosen her wrists and wriggled her fingers, already anticipating the inevitable cramp from signing hundreds of merch. Rumi locked her fingers together before pulling her arms towards the ceiling, biting her lip as she felt a familiar pop in her shoulder.
“All right, team, I know everything is all Saja, Saja, Saja, but we’re gonna turn it into Huntrix, Huntrix, Huntrix! Yay!” He said, waving his jazz hands to rile up the girls.
“These fans slept on the sidewalk, overnight!”
The girls held up their pens.
“Happy fans, happy Honmoon!” they chorused, voices bright, almost in sync.
They flicked their pens in unison, adding a touch of performance to the ritual. With hopeful smiles, they took their seats behind the velvet-draped signing table.
Outside, the rumble of feet and chatter swelled.
It was time.
*
“Let’s bring them in! Welcome.”
The staff flung the front doors open, and for a breathless moment, there was silence—
Then came the roar.
A tsunami of bodies surged into the empty hall, screams echoing off the high ceilings like a stadium concert crowd. Fans bolted forward with notebooks, handheld banners, and coordinated chants already rising in rhythm. Security ropes strained as the wave pushed forward, the ground trembling beneath synchronised footfalls and feverish energy.
Bobby held up his hands.
“Hey, hey hey, single file, no pushing!”
His voice barely cut through the noise. The fans were too caught up in the sight of Huntrix, seated and radiant under soft lighting, pens poised like royalty about to knight their devoted.
The girls’ bright smiles flickered just a touch as the first five fans stumbled forward, bundled in full-body navy sleeping bags that rustled as they moved. The outfits were shapeless, odd, and—at least to Mira - suspiciously familiar.
She blinked. Are they trying to recreate my Met Gala outfit?
The navy? The drape? The aggressive puffiness?
She narrowed her eyes. Unforgivable!
At the other end of the table, Rumi held her smile like a seasoned diplomat. She pulled the stack of glossy photo cards toward her, uncapping her favorite pen with a satisfying pop.
“And who should I make this out to?” Rumi asked.
“’To our biggest fans.’”
And with that, the sleeping bags fell away in unison—like a choreographed stage reveal. Fabric dropped to the floor, revealing tailored outfits, perfect hair, and smirking faces beneath.
The Saja Boys!
For a half-second, time hung suspended.
Then the room detonated.
Fans screamed so loud it shook the air itself, some collapsing dramatically to their knees, others jumping up and down to get a better look of their favourite Saja Boy. Phones shot up, capturing the moment for the inevitable trending hashtags.
The Saja Boys posed like they were on cue for a fashion magazine spread—winks, waves, and signature smirks all weaponized.
And Huntrix?
Still seated. Still blinking.
Their event had just been hijacked!
*
Bobby immediately plastered his most politically correct expression and bowed towards the boy band.
“It is an honor! Table, now!” he commanded with a snap of his fingers.
Like clockwork, the event staff kicked into high gear. A spare trestle table and chairs were swiftly positioned next to the Huntrix table.
The crowd, meanwhile, had already begun to fragment.
Screaming fans peeled off like waves crashing against two shores—half of them pressing toward the newly erected Saja table, snapping photos, waving fanlight rings and handheld signs bearing Romance’s heart-doodled name. The orderly signing line dissolved into chaos as priorities shifted.
Rumi stared at the shifting crowd, her smile faltering for the first time that morning.
“We lose half the fans?”
It wasn’t just a question — it was a realization. A warning.
Huntrix couldn’t afford this! Happy fans mean a strong Honmoon. Every single signature counted. Every chant. Every flicker of devotion.
But then, like a lightning strike, an idea lit up in Rumi’s eyes.
“The Saja Boys will sit with us!”
Mira and Zoey whipped their heads to stare at their lead singer in complete confusion.
“What? Rumi?”, Zoey gasped, voice pitching into alarm.
Mira leaned in, voice low, taut, and full of fury: “Rumi, what are you doing?”
But Bobby, ever the opportunist, had already seized the moment like it was red carpet gold.
“Genius!” he crowed, clapping his hands like a proud pageant mom.
“Same table?”
The announcement hit the fans like a wave of glitter-drenched caffeine. The two divided crowds gasped and began to flow back together, merging once more into a single euphoric swarm.
Phones went up. Chants broke out.
“We need every fan.” Rumi pleaded — not to the crowd, but to her group.
Zoey still looked like she might burst into tears or flames.
Mira? She was already calculating exactly how close any Saja Boy could sit to her before she committed a minor public relations incident.
*
Mira scowled as Romance and Abby slid into the two empty seats flanking hers, like smug puzzle pieces that didn’t belong but insisted on fitting anyway. Her jaw tensed as the chair legs scraped across the floor — a shrill, grating sound that mirrored her mood.
Romance sat down with the practiced grace of someone who knew cameras were always watching. He moved like velvet and smugness had a baby, angling his body toward Mira like he was posing for a fan cam.
“Hmmm. We keep meeting like this.” Romance drawled, voice smooth as honey and twice as sticky.
He propped one elbow on the table, his chin resting lazily in his palm, while his other arm casually draped across the back of Mira’s chair like it lived there now.
Mira growled low in her throat, and resisted the deep, primal urge to roll her eyes so hard they might fly out of her head.
“You say that like it’s mutual.” she muttered under her breath.
How tacky could he be? Heart necklace. Pink heart shaped buttons. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to pretend it was accidental. He was the boyband embodiment of actual ‘romance’ — as marketed, overproduced, and painfully performative as his stage name.
Don’t make me gag, Mira thought, tucking her arms tightly into her sides as if proximity might infect her with his delusions.
Romance smiled - no, smirked - as he leaned in closer, the scent of expensive cologne and shameless ego wafting off him like a perfume ad come to life.
“You know, Mira, I’ve written three songs inspired by you,” he murmured, voice just loud enough to only be overheard by the fans closest to the table.
She side-eyed him without turning her head. “Tragic. And here I thought plagiarism was out of fashion.”
Abby, seated on her other side, let out a soft gasp, torn between amusement and horror.
“Oooof,” he winced. “She got you, bro.”
Romance only smiled. “Cruel muse. Do you treat all your fans this way, or am I just special?”
Mira didn’t blink. Didn’t soften.
“You’re not a fan. You’re an infestation.”
The air crackled. Somewhere, a group of fans gasped. Romance’s smirk faltered — for just a second — before settling back into place, even wider now.
And Mira? She finally allowed herself a slow blink, the kind that said: I’ve survived worse than you in high heels and red lipstick.
*
Dressed head-to-toe in purple Huntrix merch, the fan in front of her bounced on the balls of his feet and squealed.
“Mira! Could you please sign right next to Romance’s signature?”
“If only I could smash your demon face now!” Mira growled through gritted teeth, the words barely audible but razor-sharp.
Romance, of course, just flashed a smile, entirely unbothered, basking in the fans’ giggles as if Mira’s rage were just another form of attention.
Mira didn’t even glance at the fan’s photocard. Her pen hovered for a beat, trembling slightly in her hand — not from fear, but from the effort it took to not snap it in two. Her grip tightened until the poor black sharpie gave a subtle creak in protest, like it, too, feared for its life.
She inhaled slowly, forcing her lips into a polite approximation of a smile as she turned back to the fan. Her voice was syrupy sweet and stiff as she tried to tried to unclench her jaw.
“Thanks for coming!”
She held out the card, the picture now signed — but not delicately.
The fan blinked at the photocard, visibly deflated and disappointed – Mira had carved a massive sprawling aggressive “M”, obliterating Romance’s flourish beneath it.
Abby leaned in and peered over her shoulder with exaggerated curiosity. One brow lifted.
“Making a statement?”
Mira didn’t look at him.
“Just signing with purpose.”
*
Romance tilted his head, still staring at Mira. “Playing hard to get?”
“No. Playing ‘go away’…” Mira snapped, finally giving in to a slow, dramatic eye roll that should’ve earned its own fandom.
Bobby flitted between Abby and Mira, refreshing water bottles and mouthing silently to her behave! and holding up two fingers in a V for “victory”… or maybe “very PR crisis”.
Too late.
Romance leaned his body just a little more to invade Mira’s personal space without technically touching her. She didn’t flinch — but her pen paused just slightly mid-autograph, a flicker of irritation flashing behind her lashes.
He tilted his head and gave her that half-lidded look he probably practiced in the mirror.
“You know,” he began, voice low and far too pleased with himself, “Abby and I slept on the sidewalk last night just to be first in line for this fan event.”
Mira blinked slowly, her expression unreadable.
“Didn’t that count for something?”
She capped her pen with a decisive click.
Her gaze slid toward him like a knife being drawn.
“Yes,” she said coolly. “It counts as the most dramatic cry for attention I’ve seen since you fake-fainted on Play Games With Us. You barely touched that chilli sauce.”
Romance held a hand to his heart like he’d been mortally wounded.
Mira turned back to the fan with a perfectly smooth smile, signed their photocard with practiced ease, and handed it back before leaning just barely toward Romance.
“You slept on concrete for a front-row seat to my indifference. And honestly? I think that’s kind of poetic.”
She straightened, returned to signing, and didn’t spare him another glance.
Romance sat back in stunned silence.
Then quietly muttered, “I should write a song about this.”
Without missing a beat, Mira replied under her breath,
“Only if it’s your retirement anthem.”
*
“I’ll sign it first.” Mira said, yanking the fan’s cast-encased right leg toward her with a death grip that could’ve popped the kneecap off.
“No, I’ll sign first.” Abby insisted, reaching across the table to snatch the leg back like it was a limited-edition photocard.
“No! I’ll sign first!” Mira scowled, her voice rising as she pulled the leg back with renewed force, her sharpie already uncapped and at the ready like a sword.
Romance said, leaning in so close his breath tickled her ear. He latched onto the leg as well, his tone soft, smug, and deeply annoying as he tugged it back toward him.
“No, me! Me first!” Mira snapped, tightening her hold, eyes blazing.
The poor fan — a late teen with a purple Huntrix shirt and a trembling smile — squeaked as his body jerked forward and back with each pop star tug-of-war. He squeezed his eyes shut in terror as his crutches screeched across the floor, the casted leg being treated like a VIP backstage pass.
He was beginning to regret braving the fan event.
This was supposed to be a dream come true. Not… whatever this was.
“I just wanted a signature, not a torn ligament,” he whimpered.
Suddenly, Mystery reached over, grabbed the sharpie from Mira’s death grip, and calmly signed the cast with a flourish.
“There. Problem solved,” he said, popping the cap back on and placing it in the fan’s trembling hand.
Mira, Romance, and Abby all froze.
The fan stared at the cast.
Then at Mystery.
Then back at the cast.
“…Wait, you’re not even in this fight.”
Mystery shrugged. “Exactly.”