Chapter Text
The city reeks of desperation.
You pass shuttered stalls and alleyways steeped in rot, your feet silent on the cracked stone road. The evening market is thin today. Crowds come and go, depending on the season. As the harshness of winter approaches, and the temperature drops drastically, fewer and fewer leave their homes. Crops dry up and run barren. Nearly everyone, as far as the eye can see, is starving.
Except you .
You’ve never experienced what hunger feels like. You’ve never known the agony of having to wonder when your next meal might be. Your body has no need for the sustenance that fuels ordinary people. Because the truth is, you aren’t. Ordinary, that is. The faint patterns that sometimes glow underneath your clothing are more than proof of that.
A demon like you is able to walk among humans. You doubt you’re the first. Far from it, in fact. Demons will often adopt human forms in order to get closer to their targets and steal their souls. Camouflaging as one of them isn’t all that difficult, in the grand scheme of things. Deception makes them weak. Vulnerable. Even more so than usual.
Your eyes flicker continuously, from one spot to the next. You walk because it's what you do. You drift like a shadow, no destination, no name whispered behind you. But then you hear it.
A voice.
Without a doubt, the voice is beautiful. Crystal-clear, melodious—yet it almost sounds like it’s aching. There’s a rawness to it, and much like everything else in this city, it too is tinged with desperation.
Perhaps that’s why it catches your attention. Not because of the suffering it conveys. After all, you’re used to that. You’ve seen too many pitiful sights by now to even keep track of. It’s the fact that despite the hardship, the grief, and the bitterness, the person still forces themselves to press on. Their voice fights against the overwhelming urge to give up and accept their miserable fate.
And so, you follow it.
There are three people altogether. A mother, by the looks of things, holding her daughter in her arms as they both shiver from the cold. But neither of them are the ones singing. It’s the young man sitting beside them, fingers clenched around his bipa , a worn wooden lute, as he sings aloud.
You stop and stare at him for a while. The sound, like his voice, is hauntingly beautiful. Perhaps the three of them are a family. He looks just about young enough to be the mother’s son, and the little girl’s older brother.
One quick glance at them is all you need to know that their family is impoverished. Their clothes are cheap and worn-out, and the mother especially is starting to get dangerously thin. She must be giving her own meals away to her children. Her eyes are riddled with dark circles, to the point of being ghoulish.
The young man continues singing, however, nobody besides you even so much as spares him a glance. One of the strings of his lute is frayed. Still, his hands move with the stubbornness and resilience of someone who’s learned how to bleed beauty out of broken things.
You can’t say that you’ve ever heard the song before. Maybe it’s something he wrote himself. A bowl lies beside him—only two measly coins inside. You wonder how long he’s been here.
Your gaze drifts to his face, which complements his voice perfectly. He has sharp, attractive features, but they’re marred by sweat, hunger, and an exhaustion that lingers in every facet. Every so often, he squeezes his eyes shut while he sings. You can tell that he’s not just performing. He’s hoping. Praying that the world might give his family a chance.
For a while, you just stand there, letting the sound wash over you. He eventually finishes the song on a breath he barely has left, hands going still against the lute’s strings. He doesn’t move. Not for several moments. But then his eyes open, and he sees you.
He blinks, startled. It’s not that you look strange just upon a first glance. Nobody ever recognizes you as a demon. But the way you’re staring at him—so quiet and attentive—must take him aback.
“You have a beautiful voice,” you eventually say.
“Oh.” He wipes his brow with his sleeve, smiling weakly. “Thank you.”
“Did you write that song yourself?”
“Yes… I did.”
There’s a long pause between you. The wind shifts. The smell of illness and fever clings faintly to his clothes.
He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes pan towards the herbalist across the street. You follow it—the medicines in the window, the price tags higher than most can afford. His hands tremble slightly as he begins packing up his instrument.
You kneel beside the bowl.
From your satchel, you draw a bundle wrapped in soft cloth. The food you’ve been carrying with you all this time. The food that you have no need for. The food that you’ve only been holding onto just in case someone else could make use of it.
You can feel that the food within the cloth bundle is still warm. You set it beside his bowl, carefully, along with a handful of coins.
He stares at it, then up at you, eyes wide. “Thank—thank you. Again. Thank you so much...”
The young man’s mother and sister take their turns to thank you as well, voices hoarse and trembling. The little girl even coughs as she strains to get her words out. All three of them look dizzyingly weak. You fear to imagine how much worse it would have gotten if you hadn’t stopped by.
“Do you need me to buy the medicine for you?” you ask. “If you want, you can just wait here and I’ll be right back.”
“No, I’ll manage,” the young man insists. “You’ve already done so much. Are you sure you can afford to spare us all of this?”
It doesn’t surprise you that he’s confused. You don’t look all that well-off either, with your modest, shabby clothing. He doesn’t realize, however, that it’s by design. You prefer not to stand out. It’s easier this way. Everyone is better off not paying too much attention to you. Lest they discover something they regret.
“Don’t give up on singing,” you say, lips pulling into a gentle smile. “You have a gift. I’m sure that one day, your talent will be properly acknowledged.”
“...thank you.”
Those seem to be the only words he knows how to form, too stunned by this rare act of kindness to think clearly. Already, you’ve begun to turn away. It’s never a good idea for you to hang around too long in one place. People might notice things, like how you can weather virtually any storm, and how you never seem to age.
But then—
“I’m Jinu,” the man says, or rather, blurts . He gazes at you, hopefully, although you’re not sure what he’s expecting. Maybe he’s just happy. Maybe his faith in humanity has been restored, ever-so-slightly.
Which would be ironic, because you aren’t even a human to begin with.
“What’s your name?” he asks, a split second after introducing himself. Once again, his eyes remain hopeful. You can’t answer his question, though. There’s no point in telling him who you are when he’ll never even see you again.
“I’m nobody,” you answer instead. Your feet are already carrying you away from him, and even though he probably has the urge to chase after you, he doesn’t dare leave his family behind.
“Thank you,” Jinu says again. “My family and I will never forget your kindness.”
His voice carries something soft, and something sharper. Like a thread tying you to him, even as your paths diverge.
As you disappear into the falling dusk, you feel his eyes lingering, well after you’ve walked away.
Truthfully, you smell it even before you hear it.
Carried by the wind, the scent quickly reaches your nose. Not blood, not rot, but soul-fire. Sour. Wrong. You pause under the shadow of a crumbling overpass, eyes narrowing.
Someone is about to die.
It’s not a slow, natural kind of death. Not the way humans usually go, either from illness, old age, or natural disasters. No, this death is sharper. As if it’s being pulled .
You slip between buildings like you’re threading a needle, and there it is.
A man. Actually, perhaps you should call him a boy, seeing as he’s barely out of adolescence, if even. He’s trembling, mouth parted in a silent scream. His back is pinned to the stone wall of an alley, one shoe missing. You can tell that he wants to run, but he’s frozen in place as if he’s forgotten how.
Before your eyes even flicker across from him, you already know what you’re about to see.
The boy finds himself face to face with a demon. The demon snarls, smoke dancing in the gaps of his sharp teeth, nails sharpened into claws. He has only one goal in mind, and it’s to siphon spirits from humans’ bodies. You can see the shimmering outline of the boy’s soul, halfway torn free, as the demon sinks his claws in.
To make matters even worse, he’s laughing .
“Humans die like mice,” he hisses, grinning wider the more the boy’s eyes fill with tears. “Always so scared. So weak.”
A quiet, disgusted scoff leaves your lips.
“I’ve heard enough,” you say, and the moment you utter the words, the demon’s head turns towards you.
Albeit, far too late.
Your hand, outstretched, glowing at the edge of your skin as it cleaves through the space between you. That’s the last thing the demon sees before it jerks back—like he’s been burned by your essence—then crumples weakly to the ground. Already, his body is starting to disintegrate, and you hear a disbelieving wail building in the back of his throat.
You turn towards the boy. He’s unconscious now, no doubt having passed out from the fear, but he’s alive. Even if he saw your face, it doesn’t matter. Soon, you’ll have left this city behind, just like all the others.
The only ones still lucid are you and the demon. More specifically, the other demon. Fury is twisting his already warped features, especially since he knows he’s about to disintegrate—until suddenly, hate turns to utter confusion.
He freezes. You’ve seen this same reaction a million times by now. It’s all become rather predictable. Not that you don’t understand where he’s coming from.
“ You ,” he grits out, accusingly. “You—why? Why would you? You’re one of us !”
You don’t answer.
Instead, you lunge forward, striking him a second time. His outraged cry breaks free at the last second, but it’s so fleeting that it disappears in the wind, forgotten. Like he never even existed in the first place.
In that sense, you and this demon are one and the same. When all’s said and done, you too will be remembered by no one.
It’s a good thing you’ve made your peace with that.
You lean over and gently place your hand against the boy’s clammy forehead, offering whispered words of comfort, then you rise and vanish into the dark before anyone can see you.
As is inevitable with the passing of time, things have changed.
Gone are the stone alleys and ash-flecked skies. Neon signs flicker like artificial constellations now, and instead of prayers or coin bowls, people carry their lives in their pockets, never disconnected from the world around them. Cars honk. Streetlights buzz. You occasionally hear souls hum like static while you wait at a crosswalk. Your new life is louder—but still every bit as reclusive.
You live alone. Always alone. The only places you dare to stay at are cheap, shoddy accommodations, where nobody will ask questions and wonder about you when you disappear. The same goes for work. You don’t need anything fancy. Just small, menial jobs; enough to afford a roof over your head. Since you don’t need to eat, you rarely buy food. Sometimes you get a slight craving for something and you allow yourself to indulge, but otherwise, you live as unremarkable a life as ever.
It’s late. Just past midnight. A bar nearby plays soft synth music that you ignore. You sit on a bench outside a closed convenience store, head raised to the sky as vending machines blink sleepily beside you, and you sing .
Roughly 400 years ago, you developed a habit of sorts. Looking back on it, it must have been that chance encounter. When you gave an impoverished young man some food, and in turn, he gave you his name.
Jinu’s song still plays in your memories, even now. Sometimes, you find yourself singing it out of pure reflex. You lose yourself in the moment, comforted by the sweet, familiar tune.
A yawn spills from your lips. Honestly, you’re not even sure how long you’ve been singing for. You wanted to bask in the fresh night air, but despite not needing food, you do need sleep.
So, you stand up, still singing as you walk, and turn the corner to head back home.
Apparently, someone else has the exact same idea.
It’s not like you to be so careless. You’re usually really good at being aware of your surroundings, but you’re lost in your song, so you don’t realize that three figures are approaching until one of them has already slammed into you.
Containers fly. Containers of ramyeon , and your gaze pans upwards as they make an arc through the air.
Your hand moves without thinking.
One, two, three… honestly, you quickly lose track, but the point is, you catch all of them before they can fall to the ground. Which turns out to be pointless, because they’re all unopened.
“Oh, shit—I mean, shoot ! Are you okay? That’s my bad. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
There’s a girl standing in front of you. Actually, three of them, to be exact, but the one who bumped into you is currently pressing her palms together and making a sheepish face. Her hair is a long, flowing purple, tied up in a dragon braid that descends down her back. And you’re not sure why, but the pulse of her soul… something about it resonates with you.
“Damn, Rumi, watch your language,” one of the other girls chuckles. She’s the tallest of the three, with magenta hair that leans more towards red. The last of the trio is noticeably shorter. She has black hair styled in micro buns, and a cute, rounder-looking face.
Wait a second. Not that you stop to think about it, they seem kind of familiar. You swear you’ve seen their faces somewhere before. Not long ago, at that.
“Don’t say my name while we’re in public!” Rumi hisses, and she even glances around, visibly panicked.
Ah.
You remember now. You definitely have seen them before. They’ve been showing up all over the place lately. On TV, on YouTube, on Instagram—you name it. Normally, you don’t tune in to those kinds of things, but it even caught your eye, considering how viral they’ve become.
HUNTR/X. A popular kpop group that had their debut a while ago. Since they appeared, they’ve been taking the industry by storm. At the rate they’re growing, they’ll probably top the charts in no time.
They’re rapidly acquiring fame, so the last thing they probably want is for you to fangirl over them. Not that you were going to anyway, but still. The right approach is to pretend like you don’t know who they are. Everyone deserves a peaceful, quiet life. You of all people would know that.
“Here you go,” you say, holding out the ramyeon containers calmly.
Rumi blinks. “Wait, how did you… I just realized, but you seriously caught all of them? Your reflexes are kind of insane.”
For obvious reasons, you don’t answer.
The tallest member, Mira , you’re pretty sure her name is, sighs and punches her friend lightly on the arm. “Rumi, you literally had one job.”
“Please stop calling me that!”
“Literally what else am I supposed to call you? Girl, chill. I don’t even think she recognizes us.”
Rumi reaches out and takes the ramyeon back into her arms, then smiles. “Anyway, um, thanks. Sorry again for bumping into you. Also, this is probably a weird question… but were you the one who was singing just now?”
“Yes,” you nod.
“Wow.” Her expression immediately brightens, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You have such a pretty voice!”
You freeze up.
It’s nothing, really. Just a passing compliment from a stranger in the middle of a sleepless city. There’s no point reading into it. You shouldn’t.
You shouldn’t , but…
The reality is that it’s probably the first time anyone has said something kind to you just because they wanted to. Not because you gave them money. Not because you spared some food. Just… because you were singing.
After a life spent in isolation, you have to admit, it feels really nice.
“Thanks,” you smile, and as expected, Rumi smiles back.
Centuries have passed. The world has evolved, more so than you could ever have predicted. You still walk among humans. You still choose to. And no one, not even Gwi-Ma himself, can tear that freedom from you.
Because you are the only demon he has never been able to control.