Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was something sacred about performing on stage.

It wasn’t because of the loud cheers echoing from their fans, or the cameras tracking their every move. It was the silence before the music began. That breathless moment when every Honmoon shimmered faintly beneath their skin, waiting.

The crowd didn’t know, of course. To them, it was just a performance. Just their favorite idols singing and dancing on stage. But for the idols, every movement in a comeback stage was a ritual. A way to protect the veil that kept the world safe. And at the center of it all was IVE.

“IVE, standby. You’re up in one.” came the call.

Ahn Yujin stood at the center, eyes closed, her lips moving silently. Rei and Gaeul moved into place beside her, like verses falling into rhythm. Rei’s fingers twitched. Gaeul’s hidden blade caught a flicker of light before vanishing.

This was 'I’ve IVE.' Their long-awaited comeback. But also a beginning.

A beginning to strengthen the Honmoon again.

The Honmoon, the sacred veil that protected humanity from being devoured by demons, was beginning to weaken. It always did with time. The rituals woven into idol comebacks were not merely traditions; they were lifelines. Every move, every note, a strand woven to patch the harmony stretching across South Korea. And each generation had three chosen ones known as the Three Harmonies, the key to making the Honmoon golden and strong again. In this era, that role belonged to IVE.

Or rather, what was left of them.

The music started.

The opening chord pulsed through the venue. Excitement filled the air as lights erupted across the LED walls, revealing the IVE members. The sacred currents resonate with them as they start the performance.

Their fans screamed.

But underneath the surface, something stirred.

Behind the veil of perception, demons watched. It was enough to make Rei's breath catch. Enough to draw Gaeul’s eyes.

Still, they held formation.

Each lyric they sang was a thread, each beat a knot. Together they wove protection around the city. The Honmoon’s currents stretched wide, touching rooftops, neon signs, apartment balconies.

Then something cracked.

Silent. Subtle. But Yujin felt it.

A fracture between this world and the next.

She turned with the choreography, hand slicing through air. Her gaze swept the edges of the crowd.

A shadow stared back.

Gone in the blink of an eye.

Not a full breach. But close.

By the final chorus, they no longer felt it. As if the crack wasn’t there.

The audience began to disperse as they finished their performance and said their goodbyes. After making an exit from the stage, the trio had slipped through the usual backstage routes toward the equipment bay; standard post-stage routine. But then Yujin stopped mid-step. The Honmoon once again pulsed out of rhythm.

Something was wrong.

A screech split the silence.

Without hesitation, Yujin summoned her blade. Rei and Gaeul followed, drawing weapons with practiced ease.

“Movement. Five o’clock,” Gaeul murmured.

Two demons slipped from a broken veil near the rigging. Lesser spawn. Shifting shapes. Flickers of smoke and scale.

Yujin moved first, dashing forward in a blur. Her blade sliced through the first demon. But instead of dispersing, it reformed, hissing at the three hunters.

Rei attacked, blades slicing air and shadow. Gaeul pierced the other through the throat. It laughed, venom trailing from its grin.

“She sings your lullabies in reverse,” it rasped. “Did you hear her? She remembers you.”

Rei froze.

“Liz...”

The first demon took advantage of the off-guarded hunter and lunged at her.

Yujin moved immediately to protect, severing the demon before it could strike Rei. Fear struck in her eyes, she almost lost another.

The demons’ remains faded into nothingness. The veil trembled behind them but held firm, recovering once more from the fracture the demons opened.

But that didn't take their mind off from what they just heard.

The backstage buzzed as usual. The staff celebrated for another job well done with the performance. And IVE? They moved through the corridors like survivors, not stars, heading towards their dressing room.

They collapsed into their seats. No words, no celebratory high-fives. Just breathing.

Yujin was lost in her own thoughts. The lingering weight of the fight still hung over her, more vivid than the makeup still smudged around her eyes.

“You felt that right? Earlier?” Gaeul asked quietly, breaking the heavy silence.

Rei didn’t answer. She was lost in her thoughts, staring at the floor — as if waiting for something to bloom there or perhaps for something to fade.

“A small tear,” Yujin murmured. “Didn’t breach.”

“But it nearly did,” Gaeul replied. “And during a core performance. That wasn't a coincidence.” She glanced between them. “The demons that followed—that was the real breach.”

Rei’s shoulders tensed. Slowly, she nodded. Her voice came out brittle. “We held the seal. But it was… deliberate.” Closing her eyes, she debated if she should confess. Maybe it'll mean something to them, just like it did for her.

"I heard something."

Yujin immediately turned towards her. “What did you hear?”

Rei hesitated, contemplating if this was the right idea. “A voice. Not during the stage. Just before— during rehearsals.”

Gaeul’s brow furrowed. “Whose?”

Rei looked down, her voice barely holding. “Liz’s.”

FLASHBACK – Earlier That Day: Rehearsals

IVE was in the middle of soundcheck, ensuring their mics and in-ears were calibrated before the performance.

The stage was still mostly dark, light panels blinking lazily through test colors. The studio—usually roaring with fan chants—was quiet, filled only with the hum of machinery, occasional staff chatter, and the sharp crackle of comms.

“Let’s start again from the top,” a tech called out.

Rei stepped forward, adjusting her in-ear monitor as she readied her opening line.

“Are you al—”

But she stopped.

A sound filtered through her in-ear.

A note. Off-key. Played backwards.

Her blood ran cold.

“Did you hear that?” she asked, glancing around.

Yujin and Gaeul looked at her, puzzled before shaking their heads. "Hear what, Rei?" Yujin asked.

But before she could even reply, the voice returned, this time clearer.

“Rei”

She flinched. Rei staggered back slightly. Her heart pounded, not from fear but from something worse.

Recognition.

It was Liz’s voice.

Distorted. Twisted. Echoed through something inhuman. But undeniably her.

The same voice she once loved hearing sing. The voice that once whispered stupid jokes into her ear during practices. The voice that used to say her name with warmth.

Now, it was cold, bringing chills to her spine.

“No,” Rei whispered to herself, shutting her eyes. “This isn’t real.”

Her hands trembled slightly at her sides. Her breath came uneven. She didn’t know if she wanted to scream or crumble.

“Rei?” Yujin asked again, this time closer. “Do you need five?” Rei blinked fast, grounding herself in the present. Right. They were still in rehearsals. The stage. The staff. Her members.

She forced a shake of her head. “No, it’s okay. There was a problem with my in-ear.” Quickly, she fumbled with her mic pack, pretending to adjust it. It was a lie. She just needed them to stop asking. Because she wasn’t ready to talk about it.

Not yet.

Not when she hadn’t even processed it herself.

Rei hasn’t processed it yet completely, but she has no choice now.

She swallowed hard, recalling the events earlier. “And that demon… it said, ‘She sings your lullabies in reverse.''" She paused, before continuing, "It said she remembers me… It's why I froze.”

Her voice cracked at the end. That name alone was enough to shake something loose in all of them, but the voice,

that voice.

It broke her.

The memory of Liz’s voice lingered like a ghostly refrain in her thoughts, haunting the space between breaths.

They had fought demons today. Real ones. With claws, fangs, corrupted rhythm. But this was what haunted them.

No one said anything for a long time. The air turned heavy, grief returning like it never left.

Rei's admission had triggered something. Something they had long tried to move on from.

Liz, Wonyoung, and Leeseo; three names that weren’t supposed to be said aloud anymore. Not here. Not after what happened during their trials. Not after everything.

Gaeul began to pace, arms folded tight across her chest. Her expression strained. "Those demons weren't just sent to attack us, they wanted to pass a message. To you, Rei. To all of us."

Rei sat rigid on the sofa, her hands still curled tight in her lap. "They knew things. About us. About... Liz."

Yujin nodded slowly. “Then this wasn’t a random fracture. It was a provocation.” Gaeul nodded, disturbed by what they're unearthing.

The silence pressed in again, thick with memory and dread.

Yujin finally rose from her chair. Her voice was firm and steady. “This means one thing, the demons are making their move. If the Golden Honmoon is even close to forming, Gwi Ma will want to fracture us first.”

“I’ll request a consultation with Red Velvet sunbaenim and report this to the Order” Gaeul said, already whipping out her phone to contact the necessary people.

Rei still hadn’t moved.

Yujin stepped closer and placed a hand gently on her shoulder, a quiet gesture of comfort.

None of them spoke. Because at that moment, there were no words that could ease the tension settling between them.

At nightfall, IVE returned to their dorm after a long day. Even as they went about their nightly routine, a quiet heaviness lingered in the air.

Gaeul stood by the window, watching the skyline. “You remember the night before our final trial?” She said carefully. It was still a sensitive topic after all.

Yujin looked up from where she sat, hair still damp from the shower. “Of course.” Curious as to why the older one brought it up. Rei didn’t speak, but nodded. She was listening.

“I had a dream about it,” Gaeul said softly. “All six of us were there. Laughing. No weapons. No duties. Just girls crammed into a tiny dorm, bonding in the living room. Liz was singing something ridiculous, and Wonyoung couldn’t stop laughing while Leeseo tried to choreograph it.”

She smiled faintly. “Somehow, she convinced us to dance along.”

Rei let out a quiet chuckle, she fully remembered that night. “Leeseo was always like that. When she wanted something, she made it happen.” 

How can she ever forget such a moment?

Gaeul’s smile faded. She closed her eyes for a moment, the memory turning heavy. “That night felt like the last time we were whole.”

Silence settled over them, the kind that carries weight. The kind filled with memories too vivid to forget and too painful to relive.

They remembered when they were six. And how far away that felt now.

Rei looked up, wondering. “If she’s still out there…” Her breath caught.

She has to be.

Gaeul clenched her fist, jaw tight as she said, “Then we’ll find her. All of them.”

Yujin nodded slowly. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, or maybe on something far beyond it.

“It’s not just about finding them,” she said, her voice lower now. “The demons that slipped through. It knew things. Things no outsider could ever know. It used our memories against us.”

She paused, her throat tightening. “That means they’ve been watching. Studying. And if they’re using the past… it means they know exactly where to hurt us.”

Silence settled between them again, Yujin’s worries filled the air.

Gaeul broke the silence, her tone clear and unwavering. “Then we move and face them. With our eyes open, blades ready and hearts guarded….but not closed.” A quiet vow, not just to fight but to hope.

To believe that somewhere beyond the veil, they could still be whole.

Still be six.

Eventually, one by one, they drifted to their rooms. Exhaustion finally caught up with them. As the lights dimmed and the soft hum of the city faded into the distance, sleep slowly claimed them, offering brief rest beneath a fragile peace.

The next morning, they had a brief meeting with their manager. She was a mere human, not a hunter, but knew just enough to keep the cover intact. And she wasn’t alone in the room.

Kim Minju stood nearby, arms folded, looking at them with a warm smile. She was a former IZ*ONE member and now a rising actress, Minju shared a deep history with both Yujin and Wonyoung, though the latter was no longer with them.

After IZ*ONE disbanded, most went back into the industry yet maintained a role within the operations. The Order doesn’t speak openly about how it decides who to keep within reach, only that those chosen have proved to be an important asset to them.

Minju was one of them.

She isn’t in the frontline, but she moved like someone with clearance. Trusted enough to handle encrypted communications, field recordings, and classified fragments of Honmoon activity. 

And she wasn’t alone in this either. It was announced that that other former IZ*ONE members had taken on roles of their own; support, intelligence, containment. Together, they formed a kind of scaffold behind the new generation.

The trio greeted her politely. Yujin raised an eyebrow, a silent question hanging between them. Minju didn’t reply, at least not yet. There would be time later.

“We’ll have two rehearsal tapings this week,” the manager explained, flipping her clipboard. “Red Velvet’s team responded. They’ll see you after the Music Bank stage.” Then she looked and pointed at Minju. “And she will also be around to assist, especially with what’s at stake.”

Gaeul exchanged a glance with Yujin. The Order moves fast.

“There’s also talk of including LE SSERAFIM in the MAMA Performance” the manager continued. “Their Honmoon resonance matches well with yours. It'll work.”

Honmoon resonance, the spiritual harmony between idol and veil, was more than just synergy on stage. It was what kept the fractures sealed, what allowed performances to double as rituals. The stronger the resonance, the stronger the protection.

“That’s not just a collaboration,” Yujin murmured. “It’s reinforcement.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No,” Gaeul said quickly. “It’s smart.” It was a move to one-up the demons, though she didn’t say out loud.

Rei didn’t speak. She was still deep in thoughts due to the events that occurred yesterday.

The manager took a good look at the three, noting the distant looks in their eyes. “Anyway, LE SSERAFIM and their team will be briefed soon, so expect them to drop by if it pushes through.” They all nodded in response.

“Also,” the manager added, “the higher-ups agreed to give you a day off.”

That caught their attention. The trio perked up slightly, and a small smile tugged at the manager’s lips. “Of course that’s what gets a reaction,” she muttered under her breath.

Minju, standing beside her, let out a quiet laugh.

The IVE girls immediately started tossing out ideas—where to go, what to eat. For a moment, the weight pressing on their thoughts eased.

Their manager stayed behind long enough to tidy a few papers, then excused herself with a knowing glance—bidding farewell to IVE and Minju. Minutes later, Rei and Gaeul left to go back to their dorms after they decided on their plans for the day.

As they stepped out, Yujin lingered. Minju didn’t move either.

They stood in silence for a beat, long enough to acknowledge everything unsaid.

“You’re really here,” Yujin said quietly.

Minju offered a faint smile. “The Order doesn’t send me unless it’s serious.”

Yujin’s gaze narrowed. “How serious?”

Minju looked out the window before answering. “Serious enough to pull the past back in.”

There was weight in her voice, and something unspoken in her eyes. Yujin felt it settle in her chest.

“More of us are coming,” Minju added. “Not just me.”

“IZ*ONE?” Yujin asked.

Minju didn’t answer directly. “You’ll see.”

They exchanged a look. A look of longing and heaviness. Then Minju turned towards the door.

“We’ll talk more soon. Enjoy your day-off Yujin,” she said before leaving.

Far across the city, something stirred in the weakened currents of Honmoon.

A lullaby was disrupting its flow.

A lullaby that had once been written with pure intentions, twisted now into something wrong.

It started beneath the surface. A ripple, then a break—until demons poured into the city, spreading like wildfire, their path cleared by the song that had thinned the veil. In the midst of the chaos, three figures remained still. They did not cross into the human realm.

They didn’t need to. 

It wasn’t their time yet.

One girl sat before a wall of fractured mirrors, quietly brushing her hair as she hummed the twisted lullaby.

Another knelt beside her, carefully tending to a clawed gauntlet. Its blades curled like talons, each one sharpened to a lethal edge.

The third kept singing. Her voice was soft, steady, and haunting—drawing more demons through the fractures she had helped open.

On the throne sat Gwi Ma, smiling as he watched everything unfold beneath him.

The Honmoon that once protected humankind is now their passageway.

Their own ritual had begun.

Chapter Text

Rei sat quietly in her room, half-dressed for the day. Their schedule was clear, a rare day off. She, Yujin, and Gaeul had planned to visit a restaurant their fans recommended. Something casual. Something light.

But even the promise of good food and laughter couldn’t pull her out of the heaviness settling in her chest.

She hadn’t stopped replaying it.

“She sings your lullabies in reverse.”

It haunted her. The implications of it sent not only chills in her spine, but ache to her heart.

They had made that lullaby in secret. Sang for each other like a love letter disguised as harmony. A melody wrapped in trust, meant only for them.

And now?

It was twisted. Reversed. Used.

It hadn’t just torn through the veil.

It had cut straight through her.

She closed her eyes, wishing for the pain to go away but it didn’t. It lingered.

“We need back-up!”

“More incoming in the east wing!”

By noon, chaos rippled through the Order’s communication channels. Five breaches confirmed. One rupture emerged mid-broadcast, live, during a morning music show. Cameras caught the flicker behind the host’s stage then cut to black.

The idols moved without hesitation. This was what they were trained for.

On camera, they were performers. Artists.

But beneath the lights and rehearsed smiles, they were something else entirely.

They are Hunters.

TXT and Kep1er rerouted instantly, intercepting the twin fractures in Busan. ENHYPEN held their ground in Daegu. Their weapons shimmered to life, Honmoon resonance humming beneath each breath.

In Gangnam, the rupture opened behind a camera flash. Aespa was in the middle of a CF shoot. Winter broke position first. Karina followed without a word, already tracking the movement in the rift. Ningning and Giselle held the line, stabilizing the fractured veil just long enough to keep the breach from spreading.

The public would see only vague apologies and delayed content releases: Technical errors, server overload, schedule conflict, emergency.

But behind the screens, the truth was far worse. The veil had been torn in five places and the idols were holding it together with everything they had. However, they were only patching holes. Temporary fixes for something fundamentally broken.

The veil could be held.

But not healed.

Not by them.

Only the Golden Honmoon could do that.

It wasn’t a spell or technique. It was the seal itself. When the veil shone gold, it meant the world was safe. It meant the human realm was sealed shut, beyond the reach of Gwi Ma’s corruption. But now, that seal has dimmed. The fractures were spreading, multiplying, allowing demons to slip through and feed again on countless innocent souls. And only the three souls chosen by the veil can restore it.

When those three forged a new seal, and the Honmoon turned gold once more, the fractures would close completely. The barrier would be whole. And the demons would be locked out once again.

Until then, the rest could only hold the line.

They were idols by name.

But they were the only thing standing between the world and the looming darkness.

IVE, in the middle of their day off, felt it. The ripple slicing through the city’s peace like a sour note. It came from a nearby theater and they moved without question.

The air buzzed with dread. The currents beneath the stage pulsed weakly, fractured in places the public couldn’t see. With every step, they were prepared to bring out their weapon. Their eyes watching every corner possible.

Then it struck.

The veil rippled.

A hiss. A shimmer.

Demons poured through.

“Above!” Yujin shouted, her blade flashing into form.

Rei lunged first, meeting the first demon mid-leap. Steel clashed with smoke and bone. Gaeul followed, her glaive slicing through three demons in one clean arc.

But something felt wrong.

“These aren’t strays,” Gaeul called. “They’re coordinated.”

“They’re testing our rhythm,” Rei muttered, deflecting a clawed swipe.

Then a rift bloomed open behind the LED rigging. From within, a single note slipped through — warped, fractured, but familiar.

Liz’s voice.

Yujin faltered.

Gaeul froze.

A shadow lunged for Rei.

She dodged, but it still whispered:

“You didn't come for me, Rei. I waited.”

Then the rift slammed shut.

Silence fell.

The remaining demons retreated, slipping back through the cracks they came from.

“They know our tempo,” Gaeul said.

“They know how to break it,” Yujin added.

Rei didn’t speak. Her silence was louder than any scream.

Within the hour, the Order convened an emergency session. The veil-chamber was quiet, cold, carved deep beneath the city — where no resonance could leak, no demon could listen. IVE stood at its center. Around them, seats once reserved for past protectors flickered to life.

Red Velvet appeared first through projection, flickering against the chamber walls. Seulgi’s silhouette pulsed with static. Irene stood beside her while Wendy lingered in the back, hands trembling faintly.

Other generations hovered in silence. The old protectors now became watchers, awaiting the words they hoped not to hear.

“This has happened before,” Seulgi began, voice sharp. “During our cycle. Yeri was targeted through a song she wrote as a trainee.”

Silence filled the chamber after Seulgi spoke Yeri’s name.

It wasn’t just grief that held the room, it was fear. A collective tension that no one dared name.

Within the Order, it was once whispered that Red Velvet had trained as five. Before they ever debuted in the public eye as a trio, there had been five souls training to be the next protectors: Seulgi, Irene, Wendy, Joy, and Yeri. Their Honmoon resonance were said to be exceptional, a near-perfect blend. But somewhere along the Trial, something changed.

And yet… the records say nothing. No incident reports. In the official archives, Joy and Yeri simply didn’t exist. Like shadows the veil swallowed whole. Their resonance signatures had been wiped, their training logs expunged. Even within the highest levels of the Order, their fate was sealed behind classified vaults. A wound stitched shut by silence.

As if they were never part of Red Velvet at all.

Only a few high-ranking archivists and Red Velvet themselves knew the truth and they never spoke it aloud.

But the rumors persisted.

Trainees spoke in hushed tones, passing stories like ghost legends; how Red Velvet had defied protocol, how they had gone behind the Order’s back. How they had done the unthinkable.

Dragged the dead back to the living.

There were no confirmation, of course. Just fragments of fear and awe, retold in the quiet corners of the training grounds. Tales that danced between warning and myth — Red Velvet, the trio who survived, and the two whose names had been wiped clean from all record. Stories that unsettled even the most faithful.

They filled the dorms like campfire horror, except no one was laughing at the end.

But now, IVE stood on the same precipice.

Three had survived. Three had not.

The parallels were too sharp to ignore. And even though no one spoke it aloud, the truth passed between Yujin, Gaeul, and Rei; if Red Velvet had lived through the loss of two, and somehow endured, then perhaps they carried the knowledge IVE so desperately needed.

A way to save the ones they lost.

To bring Wonyoung, Liz, and Leeseo back from whatever lay beyond the veil.

And if Red Velvet wouldn’t offer that knowledge freely…

Then they would ask Red Velvet themselves. Not as a team, but as girls who had also lost people they loved.

“It’s not random,” Irene continued, cutting the silence. “It’s memory warfare. They’re using the past to disrupt the present.”

Wendy’s voice wavered. “If they fracture the veil during the Golden Ritual…”

“No one survives it,” Seulgi finished. Across the room, Gaeul clenched her jaw. “Then we don’t let it break.” Yujin’s eyes never left the projection. “Even if we have to cut through the past to hold the line.”

Wendy’s gaze shifted toward Rei, soft and searching. The girl hadn’t spoken since the theater breach. The weight of memory sat heavy in her silence. Then came one of higher ups in the Order’s voice. “We must move quickly. Find the source. Cross-reference every breach with known memory imprints.”

A pause. Then,

“Begin preparations for the Golden Honmoon. Inform LE SSERAFIM. They must meet with IVE immediately.”

Minju lingered after the meeting, her presence quiet but heavy with intent. As the others filtered out of the chamber, she approached Yujin slowly.

“I reviewed the breach at Busan” she started, her voice just above a whisper. “One of the hooded demons... said something before it disappeared.”

Yujin turned to face her, pulse quickening. “What did it say?” They already had an incident involving Liz.

Whatever Minju has to say, Yujin already doesn't like it.

Minju hesitated. Her thumb hovered over her tablet screen where an audio file waited. “I’ve listened to this more times than I should’ve,” she said quietly. “Part of me still wants to believe it’s a trick. But…”

She pressed play.

A voice crackled through the speakers, distorted by veil interference but still unmistakable in tone and phrasing.

“Left foot first, Yujin. Let’s see if you still remember how to lead.”

The words hit like a blade to the gut.

Yujin froze, breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she couldn't move.

Minju’s voice softened. “It was a message. For you.”

Yujin’s voice was barely a whisper. “Left foot first… That’s what Wonyoung used to say. When we’d partner up. Always.”

Memories flickered — shared training routines, stolen laughs between missions, the way Wonyoung would lean in and say it with a grin just before they launched into a formation.

“I figured,” Minju murmured. “It didn’t sound random. It sounded personal.”

“It wasn’t a trick. It wasn't an imitation.”

Minju’s next words landed with unbearable weight.

“It was her.”

Yujin didn’t respond. Her hands had curled into fists, knuckles pale, trembling with the effort not to break.

Because if it really was her…

Then she hadn’t just been taken.

She had been watching.

Listening.

And like Liz…

She had been left behind.

Deep beneath Seoul, where maps were erased and tunnels forgotten, three figures stood before a ruined building.

Liz stood quietly before the crumbling stone, her eyes tracing the lines she once vowed to protect. Now, she admired the way they fractured beneath her voice. Leeseo circled the chamber’s perimeter, claws trailing lazily against ancient walls. Wonyoung just stood there, her gaze calculated. She was watching the way the fractures spread.

“They felt us,” Leeseo said, her grin wide with delight.

“They always would,” Liz murmured, almost wistful. “Their harmony still resonates with ours. That makes them vulnerable.”

The air shifted.

Gwi Ma emerged, robed in darkness that breathed like smoke. His presence pulled the shadows toward him, warping the silence around them.

“Well?” he asked.

Liz smiled faintly, voice steady. “Effective. Rei froze the moment she heard me. Yujin faltered. Gaeul was off-guarded as well.”

She looked up at Gwi Ma, something bitter behind her eyes. “They weren’t ready.”

“Good,” Gwi Ma said. He turned to Wonyoung. “And you?” Wonyoung’s voice came slow and deliberate. “I left a message.”

“A message?” he repeated.

“You said her name,” Liz added, brow raised. “That’s more than I expected.”

“It wasn’t for her ears. Not directly.” Wonyoung clarified, tone like tempered steel. “She would've buried it,” She continued, her voice cold and sure. “Dismissed it as mimicry. As noise. As guilt playing tricks.” She let her fingers glide down her rapier.

“But Minju? She would know better. She always did.”

Gwi Ma’s mouth curled into something approving. “You knew she’d pass it forward.” Wonyoung nodded, “She thinks she's helping them. But by telling Yujin, she's helping me get through her.” Her eyes turned to the rift, as if seeing past it.

“She can get Yujin to accept the truth, that it was me."

Wonyoung’s voice dropped into a whisper, filled with venom. “Then she'll remember that she left us behind. That she failed as a leader.”

A grim understanding flickering in Liz's eyes.

“And that,” she said, “will cut deeper than any blade.”

Then Leeseo stepped forward, her golden eyes gleaming with anticipation. “My turn next,” she said. “Let me break Gaeul.” Liz tilted her head, amused at the enthusiasm of the youngest. Her claws continued to scrape lazily across the stone wall.

“She was the one who stayed steady. The one we leaned on. She held us when we cracked. Promised she’d always be there.”

Wonyoung’s eyes narrowed.

“But when it mattered,” Leeseo continued, voice low, “she wasn’t.” Her jaw clenched.

“She survived. We didn’t. Now she fights with the hunters, sings like she still mourns us.”

Leeseo’s lips curled, part snarl, part smile. “That’s not what she promised. That’s betrayal disguised as love.”

Gwi Ma’s grin spread, sick with satisfaction. He raised a hand. The rift shimmered open like a wound

"To shatter their harmony," he said, "you must corrupt the melody."

He turned to Liz.

"Sing."

And Liz obeyed.

Not with hatred alone.

But with love twisted beyond recognition.

With grief honed into a weapon.

A lullaby once sung with love, now meant only to haunt.

Night fell across the country. Cities flickered with neon and sleep, unaware of the demons they had barely survived.

Yujin lay awake, her back to the ceiling, eyes tracing the Honmoon currents pulsing faintly across her ceiling like constellations flickering in and out of orbit. They were safe, for now. But safe didn’t mean untouched.

The audio clip from earlier hadn’t left her. It circled her thoughts, soft and suffocating. She turned to her side, staring into the dark. Some part of her had already known. Even from the first encounter. The way the demons moved. The voices. They were there. Watching.

But she didn't want to believe it.

Now the truth coiled around her like a thread pulled too tight across old wounds.

There was no peace in knowing.

Only the slow unraveling of everything she had tried to bury.

Down the hall, the dorm kitchen hummed faintly. Rei stood alone, a glass of water in hand, untouched for too long to still be cold. She hadn’t slept. She couldn’t. Her fingers twitched.

“You didn't come for me, Rei. I waited.”

The voice wasn’t just a memory, it was real. Liz’s voice, distorted but intimate. It haunted her very being. She stared into her glass like it held answers. But all it reflected was guilt - deep, familiar, impossible to cleanse. And closing her eyes meant remembering the biggest mistake she ever made.

“Rei?”

The voice snapped her back to reality.

She turned. Gaeul stood in the kitchen doorway, worry ghosting her expression. “Oh. You’re still up,” Rei said softly, placing the glass into the sink. Her voice sounded far away to herself. She heard the shift of quiet footsteps. Then arms wrapped around her from behind.

“It’s okay,” Gaeul whispered.

Rei broke. Her shoulders trembled as the tears fell soundlessly, guilt unraveling in waves. She leaned back into the embrace, hiding her face against the warmth.

Just for this moment.

Just to breathe.

The world needed them whole. The seal needed them stronger than ever.

But what if the ones holding the seal were breaking too?

Chapter Text

The end of IZ*ONE felt like waking from a dream you didn’t know was ending.

Yujin remembered how the silence came first. The dorms emptied slowly — boxes taped, makeup mirrors dimmed. Wonyoung had fallen quiet too, always smiling, always obedient, but hollow in a way that Yujin hadn’t understood until much later.

There was no ceremony. No mission closure. Just... expiration.

Then came the reassignment letters, sealed in wax and velvet ribbon. One for Yujin. One for Wonyoung.

“Full succession training,” the words read.

Yujin had read it three times before looking up at the staff who delivered it. The woman gave no smile, only nodded. “You’ve been chosen.”

For what? They didn’t say.

The curtain had barely closed when Yujin and Wonyoung were called in. Not by Starship, but by a different authority entirely — one whose reach extended far beyond the charts and broadcasts. The Order had no official name, not in a way the public would recognize, but its seal was carved into every stage light, every reinforced mirror, every soul-tested trainee room passed off as ordinary idol practice. Their task was simple, at first: reassignment. Temporary licenses expired, team being dissolved. And yet, for reasons left unsaid, Yujin and Wonyoung were chosen for something.

IVE was introduced to them not as a group, but as a possibility. Gaeul was the first to meet them at orientation — a quiet girl with sharp eyes who didn’t seem surprised at all by the presence of former members of IZ*ONE. Then Rei, eccentric and bright, her aura strangely resonant, as if the veil's energy clung to her already. Then Liz and Leeseo, who joined later, younger, softer, drawn to the energy that was already beginning to circle like a stormcloud. Together, they trained.

Their first meeting with Gaeul happened in a training hall lit too brightly for comfort.

“You’re the IZ*ONE girls, huh,” said Gaeul.

Yujin nodded, brushing hair out of her face. “Is that obvious?”

“You walk like you’ve already seen it,” Gaeul replied.

“Seen what?”

“The Veil.”

Yujin didn’t answer.

Then Rei entered the room — quietly, at first, then with a small hop that caught everyone else's attention.

She blinked at them, curious. “So… you're the new ones.”

Wonyoung gave a polite nod. Yujin simply watched her.

“I’m Rei,” she continued, stepping forward without hesitation. “I heard you two came from IZ*ONE.”

“We did,” Yujin replied. “And you?”

Rei gave a sly smile, as if she was about to tell a secret. “I’ve been here a while. But only recently started seeing through the mirrors.”

That made Wonyoung pause. “The mirrors?”

Rei tilted her head. “You haven’t noticed? The way they stop reflecting properly after midnight?”

Yujin and Wonyoung exchanged glances. Gaeul, standing behind them, let out a short, amused exhale.

“Rei’s always telling stories,” she muttered under her breath.

Unbothered, Rei grinned. “What? It’s true. Ask any of the trainees. Or don’t—it’s more fun that way.”

Then she extended her hand, eyes still twinkling with mischief.

“Anyway. Welcome to whatever this is.”

It was a strange greeting. But somehow, it felt right.

They shook her hand.

And just like that, Rei became a part of their lives — an odd, radiant presence, half mystery and half light, as unpredictable as the veil itself.

Liz and Leeseo joined weeks later — both of them shy, eyes wide as if still adjusting to the weight of everything.

Liz tended to stick to the corners at first, humming softly to herself during breaks, hands always clasped in front of her. Her voice hadn’t bloomed yet, not fully. But there was a warmth in her presence, something that softened the edges of the room. Yujin had once caught her staying behind after practice, singing to the empty mirror. The melody was delicate, hesitant. But even then, it shimmered with potential.

Leeseo, on the other hand, watched everything with sharp curiosity. She asked too many questions — about drills, about formations, about the sigils carved faintly into the floor beneath their shoes. But she rarely showed fear.

Until one afternoon.

During their first real group break, the girls had gathered in the corner of the practice hall, sweaty and tired, munching on energy bars. Leeseo lingered near Wonyoung, quiet at first, fingers twitching nervously against her knees.

“Do you think I’ll survive this?” she asked, voice low and fragile.

Wonyoung blinked, caught off guard. “Survive training?”

Leeseo shook her head. “No. This whole... thing. The Order. The demons. The veil.”

There was a moment of silence. Around them, Rei was laughing at something Gaeul said, and Liz was playing games on her handheld console. They never really found out how she was able to sneak that in without the staff noticing.

Wonyoung turned to look at her. Her expression softened.

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

Leeseo hesitated, then gave a small nod.

“Then maybe that’s enough for now,” Wonyoung said gently, reaching out to pat the younger girl’s head. “We don’t always get answers right away. But we keep going.”

Leeseo didn’t say anything else. But she sat a little closer after that.

And for the first time since she arrived, she smiled widely.

IVE’s training was brutal — not in a way that raised questions, but in the subtle differences. 

The days were long, and the nights felt longer. Rest came in slivers, breaks were rare, earned only after exhaustion. Every task was repeated until their limbs ached and their thoughts blurred. But it wasn't just about endurance, they were being shaped into something they couldn't name. Not now.

There were lessons they didn’t fully understand why they needed it. Tests that felt more than just practice. Some drills left them shaken without knowing why. 

Still, they never asked. They assumed all idols went through this too.

No one told them otherwise.

The Order never did.

One night, after training, they collapsed on the floor of the practice room, sweaty and breathless.

“I think I pulled something in my soul,” Rei groaned, face-down on her mat.

“Is that even a thing?” Liz asked between gasps.

“In this place? Probably,” Yujin replied.

Wonyoung chuckled, eyes still closed. “Then we’re all very spiritually pulled.”

“That sounds weird,” Leeseo muttered. “Let’s never say that again.”

Laughter filled the room. Not loud, not forced; just real.

It wasn’t until much later that they would understand, when it was too late, that this wasn’t training for debut. It was preparation for the Trial.

They remembered glimpses. That sacred, shattering moment where the veil chose. The resonance. The pain. And the screaming silence that followed. They weren’t all meant to survive it. Only three. The Sacred Three, harmonized.

But that came later.

Before all that, they had each other.

There were movie nights in the practice room, snacks hidden behind camera blinds, Yujin rolling her eyes as Gaeul choreographed dance moves mid-sleep. Liz’s laugh, melodic. Wonyoung curled beside Rei during late-night breaks. Leeseo being the curious tiger she is. The gentle way they began to sync, not just as performers, but as souls walking the same tightrope. Something rare, something beautiful.

If only they knew what was at risk, maybe things could have gone differently. Just maybe.

They were led into the ruins before dawn.

This was supposed to be another trial — maybe harder, maybe longer — but nothing they hadn’t been prepared for. Or at least, that’s what they needed to believe.

The entrance stood like a mouth carved from the mountain itself. No one told them what lays beyond. No instructions. No map. Just the veil’s hum in the air, pulsing like a heartbeat. Familiar yet something felt wrong. Uneasiness slowly creeping in.

And the moment they crossed the gates, the air changed.

The temperature dropped. The light dimmed. A golden pulse blinked in the corridor ahead, then died out. The silence was thick and unnatural. It felt like walking into a memory soaked in blood.

“Stay close,” Yujin whispered.

They did.

Gaeul kept count under her breath. Wonyoung traced her fingers along the wall, feeling for anything off. Rei hummed, her voice soft and trembling. Liz clung to Leeseo’s wrist, both moving in sync, afraid of letting go.

Then the sound came — low and guttural, like something dragging itself awake.

It rumbled beneath them, deeper than the stone. The floor quaked.

Rei stumbled. Wonyoung froze mid-step. Liz gasped.

The walls groaned.

And then everything shattered.

The stone split beneath their feet.

Not in a clean divide, it was chaotic and wild. A sudden blast of Honmoon energy cracked the corridor, sending golden sparks ripping down the walls. Pillars crumbled. Floors dropped. A jagged wall shot up between Wonyoung and Yujin before either could reach.

“WONYOUNG!”

Yujin’s scream tore through the chamber. She lunged forward. The wall slammed down. Her fingers scraped against it, blood blooming from the knuckles. There was nothing on the other side. No answer.

“LIZ!” Rei shouted, spinning, breath ragged. “Where are you?!”

“I—I’m here!” Liz’s voice echoed back — but the hallway twisted, and suddenly it was behind her, above her, too far, too faint.

Gaeul spun, eyes wide. “Leeseo, grab my—!”

A shriek cut her off.

Something moved in the dark.

Not stone.

Not human.

The scent came first, iron and rot. Then the shadows uncurled. Multiple golden eyes appeared and growls came after.

“Demons!” Yujin snapped, already summoning her blade. Her breath hitched in her chest, but she moved on instinct.

Steel met claws. Honmoon charged through the room in violent bursts as Gaeul’s glaive lit up and Rei summoned and threw her blades, light slicing through the gloom.

“Hold them off! Find the others!” Rei shouted, severing a demon mid-lunge.

“They’re gone!” Gaeul cried, slashing back another one. “I can’t hear them! I—I can’t feel them!”

Yujin cut through another. Her heart was fracturing with every blow. She called for Wonyoung again. Her name shattered in the air.

They fought. Desperate. Frantic.

But the ruins kept shifting.

Every corridor they turned into collapsed behind them, sealing off paths they thought were safe. The walls pulsed with Honmoon currents, warping the air, disorienting every instinct they’d trained to trust.

Every voice they followed echoed wrong — warped, hollow, coming from everywhere and nowhere.

Liz’s cry faded into nothing.

Leeseo’s scream was cut short.

And then—

“Unnie!”

Wonyoung’s voice tore through the ruins — raw, frightened. It echoed down the collapsing corridors like a memory begging not to be forgotten. Too close. Too far. Too real to be imagined.

Yujin froze.

Everything inside her stilled.

Her blade wavered in her grip, no longer steady. It dipped, as if her body had forgotten the fight the moment it recognized that voice.

“Wonyoung?!” she screamed. “Wonyoung — where are you?!”

No answer came.

Just the sound of something crumbling. A wall giving way.

The silence was worse than a scream.

Yujin turned, her boots scraping over shattered sigils and fractured stone. She stumbled, hands outstretched, grasping for anything that could lead her to where Wonyoung had been. To where she still had to be.

Then came the scream.

Ripped straight from her lungs, from her gut — from the place she had buried every fear since the Trials began.

She slammed her fist into the wall.

Once.

Twice.

Again and again.

“No. No. No—not like this!”

Her knuckles split on the stone, blood smearing across ancient carvings, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The world was falling apart and the only thing she could do was break with it.

Gaeul rushed forward, her hands trembling as she grabbed Yujin’s arm. “You have to stop—Yujin, please—”

Yujin didn’t hear her. Or maybe she did, but didn’t care. Somewhere behind them, Rei stood frozen — eyes glassy, hands shaking, as if grief itself had locked her in place. Her lips parted like she wanted to scream too, but nothing came out.

And then the veil pulsed.

A flicker.

A breath.

And it went still.

Like it had swallowed everything.

They stumbled out of the ruins long after the sun had risen, their bodies scraped, their breaths ragged. Dirt clung to their uniforms. Rei’s hands were bleeding. Gaeul had lost her voice screaming through the stone. 

And Yujin? She looked like she got her soul ripped apart.

She turned back towards the entrance. “We need to go back. They’re still inside.”

“They might be trapped,” Rei added, trembling. “The ruins—it moved. We saw it shift.”

“There has to be a way to reopen it,” Gaeul said. “We have to search for them! They need us! What if they—”

She cut herself off, she didn’t want to say it.

The Order agents just stood there. Silent, waiting, eyes devoid of warmth. They didn’t offer comfort. Only containment.

“Let us go back in,” Yujin demanded, voice hoarse. “We’re not leaving them behind.”

A man in gray robes shook his head. “The Trial has concluded.”

“No it’s not!” Rei stepped forward, defiant. “We’re still linked—I’m sure we are! You can’t close the ruins, not yet—”

“You will be escorted to debrief.”

“We don’t want your debrief.” Gaeul’s voice cracked. “We want our family back.”

But it didn’t matter.

Guards surrounded them. Escorts shadowed their every move. They weren’t even allowed to be alone. Doors locked at night. Rooms checked. Training schedules resumed in eerie silence, as if nothing had happened.

As if Wonyoung, Liz, and Leeseo had never existed.

They weren’t allowed to speak about the Trial—not even to each other. Every whispered conversation was cut short by footsteps in the hall. Every plea to the managers — to the Order was met with silence. Every attempt to reach the ruins again was blocked.

But the trio wished they could do more than just try.

In the days that followed the Trial, after the veils closed and the names of the fallen were buried, Yujin, Rei, and Gaeul were summoned to the veil-chambers. A place untouched by cameras or broadcast lights. The Order didn’t call it a headquarters. No one called it anything, really. But it was where others had once stood before them.

The room they entered was hushed and dim, lit only by the blue shimmer of veil-glyphs carved into the walls. And waiting there were women — not many, but enough to mark a pattern.

They stood in threes.

Some bore no visible scars, but something in their stillness gave them away. Something in the way they looked at IVE with quiet understanding. Most of them didn’t speak. Except Wendy of Red Velvet, her gaze soft and heavy with things she couldn’t say.

They were the ones who had come before.

The ones who had survived.

Tea was poured. Wendy’s hands trembled slightly as she passed each cup forward.

“You’ll feel them for a while,” she said gently. “The ones you lost. The quiet doesn’t mean they’re gone. Just… distant.”

Rei’s fingers tightened around the porcelain. Her voice was low when she asked, “Is there a way to bring them back?”

No one answered at first.

Irene turned her face away. One of the older generation closed her eyes, as if she’d heard that question too many times in her life.

Then Seulgi spoke, her tone soft. “You should rest. Honmoon holds best when you’re whole and rested.”

“But we’re not whole,” Gaeul said. “How are we supposed to hold anything?”

No one dared to directly answer her.

They offered advice, the kind that wasn’t really advice.

Not one of them said, it gets better. Not one of them said, we found ours again.

And yet, in the way they looked at the trio, something passed between them. A grief long-buried. A truth half-swallowed. Yujin felt it keenly, pressed behind every silence. They had lived through it too. Every trio before them. The ones who made it out. The ones who had to keep going.

Later that night, back in their dorm, Yujin sat by the window with her hands balled into fists.

“They knew,” she whispered.

Rei stared up at the ceiling. “But they can’t say anything.”

Gaeul sat down beside her. “Because if they do… it breaks whatever’s holding this all together.”

And it was true. The Order never said what the price was. Only that someone always paid it.

The three of them lit candles that night—one for each name unspoken. They didn’t talk about hope. They didn’t pray for miracles. They just remembered.

And in that silence, they promised they would not forget.

Not Wonyoung. Not Liz. Not Leeseo.

The three of them had gone through another year of training. This time, they understood why. They knew what the veil truly was — what it demanded, what it had already taken. Reinforcement. Containment. Survival. They were the Three Harmonies now, the only ones left who could bear the weight of the golden veil.

The Order had made that much clear. Behind the glamour, behind the performances, their true job was to keep the fractures from growing. Because idols were born seeing the veil. Or maybe, chosen by it. No one knew how it worked. Some said the veil appeared to those with enough Honmoon resonance, that spiritual echo between self and stage. Others said it was lineage. Others still believed it was fate. The Order didn’t explain. It never did.

Because once you saw the veil, you could never unsee it.

And once it marked you, you were never ordinary again.

Their debut came after. They learned how to smile on cue, how to hold their poses just long enough to seal a crack in the veil. The world watched IVE’s rise. But behind every light cue and every beat drop, the three of them worked in silence. Holding back what tried to break through. Holding themselves together.

Still, some nights, the silence returned.

The rooftop lights blinked softly as the skyline pulsed beyond them.

Yujin sat there first, hands wrapped around a warm cup, steam curling past her face. She didn’t expect company — but she wasn’t surprised when Gaeul joined her, wordless, handing over another drink. Then Rei came too, hoodie sleeves pulled over her palms, settling beside them like it was second nature.

No one spoke.

They said nothing at first.

But the quiet wasn’t empty. It was full. Heavy with everything they could never say aloud.

“They were so full of light,” Rei whispered after a long pause.

Yujin nodded slowly, voice tight. “And now they’re gone.”

“Not fully gone,” Gaeul said. “We carry them in our hearts.” But even she couldn’t keep the tremor out of her voice.

The three of them sat there longer, sharing the silence.

Not healed.

But not broken either.

Rei rested her head on Yujin’s shoulder. Gaeul hugged her knees close, her gaze unfocused.

They missed them.

Some days, the ache softened—tucked beneath rehearsals and idol schedules — but it never really left. It lingered in the quiet moments. In the way their eyes would meet when a note struck too close to memory. In the silence that followed after the final spotlight dimmed.

They remembered Wonyoung’s laughter; radiant and full of life, the kind that lifted the weight in the room without effort. She carried a quiet confidence that made everything feel possible. Liz, quiet at first, had grown into something radiant, her hesitations falling away as her voice found its wings. And Leeseo, determined from the start, always pushing forward, always trying to stand just as tall.

Each of them brought something irreplaceable.

Each of them now… gone.

Yujin, Gaeul, and Rei held onto those memories like anchors. They stitched them into every song, every movement, every line they sang. Not because the Order told them to. But because forgetting would hurt more than remembering. And maybe, deep down, they feared what forgetting would mean.

The Order didn’t give space for grief. Hunters had work to do. The Honmoon didn’t wait. Their duties were clear: protect, perform, preserve the balance. So, they carried on. Even when their hearts weren’t ready.

There was no time to stop. No permission to mourn.

So the grief was tucked away, hidden under the weight of responsibility and all the things they never said out loud.

But in this moment — just the three of them beneath a quiet rooftop sky — they weren’t hunters, or idols, or chosen. They were just three girls, holding the memory of the ones they lost. Remembering how it used to feel to be whole.

And above them, the sky shimmered. As if it remembered too.

Chapter Text

Yujin had stayed curled on her bed long after the others had gone quiet. Sleep didn’t come easily — not with Wonyoung’s voice still coiled in her ears, saying her name like a blade, sharpened with hatred.

But eventually, exhaustion did what comfort couldn’t.

Across the room, Rei and Gaeul had fallen asleep tangled together on the couch. Rei’s cheeks were still stained from the tears that had shaken out of her hours ago, and Gaeul hadn’t moved all night. She’d kept her arms around her, protective and still, eyes open until they weren’t.

The morning after felt too familiar. They had slept, but none of it was restful. When the first light slipped through the curtains, none of them moved. The dorm was quiet in that particular way only grief could make it to be. 

Familiar.

Too familiar.

They had felt this before — right after the Trials, when the world crushed whatever they had. When there were only three of them left. Breathing, because the body remembered how. Moving, because stopping meant thinking.

Back then, they mourned the ones who didn’t make it.

Now, they mourned what those same girls had become.

No words passed between them as they began to stir. There was nothing to say. At least nothing good after the recent events. They just moved—slow, quiet, methodical. Yujin sat up first, rubbing her hands over her face. Gaeul carefully eased away from Rei, who remained half-asleep, brow furrowed even in dreams.

The kettle clicked on. The faucet ran. The morning unfolded like routine.

But nothing about them was ordinary anymore.

The Order's directive came in just after sunrise. A quiet ping on Yujin’s phone. Coordinates. A meeting request.

Meeting with LE SSERAFIM. The car is waiting.

They read the message once, then they got ready.

The Order called it a collaborative stage, a strategic appearance at MAMA, framed for the public as unity and spectacle.

But they all knew what it really was.

Reinforcement.

A recalibration of Honmoon resonance to support the weakening veil. A way to ensure IVE’s Golden Honmoon ritual would be a success. Especially now that fractures continued to open across the map, demons slipping through and feeding on the souls of the living.

They couldn’t afford to fail. Not when Gwi Ma and his legion had shown what they’re capable of this time.

Not when the fallen were no longer just corrupted, but sharpened into weapons that could turn the tide. And worst of all, they knew the names of those weapons. They had once loved them.

The moment they stepped into the secured training facility, Yujin paused. Her gaze swept the room, sharp and searching, until it landed on her.

Kim Chaewon.

She stood exactly as Yujin remembered. Calm. Steady. Always composed. A natural leader who didn’t need to announce herself. Beside her, Sakura offered a soft nod, her eyes still gentle, but carrying a colder edge now, one carved by battles Yujin hadn’t witnessed. And behind them came the rest of LE SSERAFIM. Kazuha, Yunjin, and Eunchae.

And then—

“Yujin,” came a voice she hadn’t heard in a long time, but could never forget.

Kwon Eunbi.

She stepped into the room like no time had passed. Still steady. Still warm. But Yujin could see it, the heaviness behind her gaze. The weight only higher ranks bore.

“Eunbi-unnie,” Yujin said, bowing slightly as she and the rest of her members offered their greetings.

But Eunbi pulled her into a brief hug anyway. The kind that didn’t need words. The kind that said I know. 

When they pulled apart, Eunbi spoke softly. “Minju isn’t with us today. She’s with the communications division,too many fractures opening at once. Someone needs to monitor the shifts.”

Kazuha stepped forward before the quiet could settle. “Fractures are swallowing people. Innocent lives. Why aren’t we deployed?” Yunjin agreed and echoed her concern, “We’re trained, we have experience, we’re ready. We can help.” Even Eunchae, usually the most reserved, shifted uneasily. “Are we just going to stay here and wait?”

Eunbi didn’t answer at once. Her eyes moved toward Yujin, then to Gaeul and Rei.

“That’s not your priority right now,” she said at last. “Others are handling it. Your managers already briefed you — this is about preparing for the Golden Honmoon ritual. Timing matters, especially now. So, focus on your part and trust that the others are doing theirs.”

Her words settled into the room like frost.

Rei glanced at Gaeul, unease flickering behind her eyes. Gaeul’s arms folded.

“The Golden Honmoon can only be completed by Three,” she said, calm but pointed. “That’s what the Trial chose. That’s why there are only three of us now. Isn’t it?”

The room shifted.

Yunjin’s brow furrowed. “Three?" Eunchae looked between them, confused. “What does that mean?”

They didn’t know. They hadn’t been told. Like most trainees, they only heard stories whispered in dorms, warnings dressed up as rumor.

But across the room, Chaewon and Sakura had both gone still. Neither looked up. And Eunbi's jaw had clenched.

Unlike the three LE SSERAFIM members, they knew.

And the memory never stopped bleeding.

Flashback – After IVE’s Debut

Surveillance had finally been lifted, no more agents shadowing them backstage, no more daily reports sent to Order. Their debut was a success, and that's what mattered.

And so, with the smallest breath of freedom, IZ*ONE reunited.

Not for performance. Not for a mission. Just to see each other again. Just to catch up.

Eunbi arranged it — a quiet evening at her apartment in one of the better districts, the kind with wide streets and quiet security. Rain blurred the view from her windows. It had started falling that afternoon and hadn’t let up since. Soft, steady, relentless.

The message she sent was simple, casual even. No urgency.

Come by if you’re free.

Chaewon and Sakura arrived first, coats still damp from the rain. They stood just inside the doorway, scanning the space like it was a memory they were afraid might vanish. Minju and Hyewon followed, umbrellas folded, laughing loudly at something. Then Hitomi, Nako, Yena, and Chaeyeon. Even Yuri, who hadn’t been seen in months, her missions scattered and far-flung. But she was here now. Almost all of them were.

There was laughter at first, soft. The kind that wavers too close to tears. They were older, but still tied by something the veil had not managed to sever. Their bond.

And yet, one seat remained empty.

“Where is Wonyoung?” Chaewon asked.

Her voice wasn’t cold. But it wasn’t soft either. It cut through the quiet like a blade, sharp with expectation.

The question stilled the room.

Yujin had been near the window, watching the city blur behind sheets of rain and neon. Her reflection stared back, pale and drawn. Her hands were clenched tight at her sides, knuckles white, like she could hold it all in if she just gripped hard enough.

She had prepared for this moment. Rehearsed the words. Promised herself she could say it.

“She didn’t make it,” she said, barely audible.

No one moved. The words seemed to hang in the air, unprocessed, waiting for a better explanation.

“She didn’t make it,” Yujin repeated. Louder. Harsher. As if saying it with force would make it easier to believe.

And then — she broke.

The sob tore free like something feral, like it had been caged for too long. It ripped up from somewhere deep, too deep, a place untouched even by the Order’s drills and teachings. She stumbled back, legs giving out like her grief had snapped every joint.

Eunbi crossed the room in seconds, arms out before anyone else could move. She caught Yujin mid-collapse, holding her like a fallen comrade. Yujin clung to her, shaking, the sobs coming faster now. All the restraint, all the silence, all the unspoken promises of strength—it crumbled.

Her cries weren’t just from grief. They came from failure. From guilt. From every sleepless night since the Trial. It was Wonyoung’s name clawing against the back of her throat. She doubled over as the sobs escaped, shaking with the force of everything she had tried to bury.

“I was supposed to protect her,” Yujin gasped. “She trusted me. I should’ve—”

“You couldn’t have stopped it,” Eunbi said gently, holding her tightly, rubbing her back.

“She looked at me,” Yujin choked, “right before the ruins split us. She was scared. She screamed for me and I—I tried, Eunbi-unnie. I tried to break through. But the wall—” Her breath hitched. “I couldn’t reach her.”

Her voice shattered again.

She hadn’t frozen. She hadn’t run. She had fought — clawed, screamed, threw everything she had at the collapsing ruins. But the Trials were never fair. And when the ground split between them, when the veil slammed shut like a verdict, all Yujin could do was watch as Wonyoung vanished — her scream echoing into the silence that followed.

No one interrupted. They let Yujin grieve, the way she hadn’t been allowed to after the Trials. Not when she was chosen. Not when being one of the Three Harmonies meant she had to hold steady, had to be unshakable.

But here, in Eunbi’s apartment, with the rain tapping softly on the windows, they weren’t hunters. Just girls. Girls who had lost one of their own.

The Order had erased Wonyoung from every file. Every log. Every official archive. As if she had never existed. As if she had never trained, fought, bled, or smiled with them.

But she had.

And no matter how much the world tried to forget her, they couldn’t. They wouldn’t.

Not when her absence still ached like a wound that wouldn't close.

Eunbi said nothing to Gaeul’s question.

Instead, she clapped her hands once. “Acquaint yourselves. Train together. We'll start preparation for your performance soon.” The tone was dismissive, maybe. Or protective. Gaeul couldn’t tell.

Rei looked like she wanted to push further, her lips already parting around a question she hadn’t fully formed. But before she could speak, Gaeul reached out lightly, signalling her to stop. Save it for later.

And so they trained.

Not for the stage. Not for spectacle. This wasn’t for the public.

It was sparring formations, synchronized containment exercises. The kind of work that didn’t earn applause but kept the veil from tearing apart.

Rei and Eunchae clicked almost instantly. Too curious, too kinetic. Their energy bounced off each other like light skimming mirrored floors, both of them quick to laugh and quicker to move. When one ducked, the other rolled. When one asked, the other answered—no matter how absurd the question.

Gaeul and Kazuha trained without words. Their sparring was sharp and brutal — strike, block, counter, repeat. Their rhythm wasn’t friendly, but it wasn’t hostile either. Just honest. Bruises bloomed by the hour. Breath turned ragged. But no one stepped back. And something in their silence settled.

Yunjin, ever direct, questioned everything. About the fractures. About the veil. About the Order’s delay. Her tone didn’t waver. She wasn’t asking for reassurance — she was demanding the truth. Sakura answered what she could, voice measured and gaze steady. She never said more than necessary. While Chaewon answered less. And when she did, her words came slow, edged with memories too old and too heavy to name.

Only Yujin stayed a step apart.

She followed every drill. Met every motion. Her movements were precise, practiced, commanding — everything the leader of IVE was meant to be. On the surface, she did everything right.

But her focus wasn’t in the room.

It was everywhere else.

The floor. The ceiling. The edges of the training mats. The hallway just beyond the door. The mirrors that reflect their every move. She scanned it all, as if expecting a ripple to break reality again. As if the veil would peel back at any moment and someone would step through.

Someone she had sworn to protect.
Someone who had once trusted her without hesitation.
Someone she couldn’t save.

Even if there were no signs, no static, no flickers in the air, Yujin watched anyway.

Because the last time Wonyoung appeared, it hadn’t been a grand entrance. Just a voice in a clip. A laugh buried beneath veil interference. A name spoken like a curse. A reminder of everything she’d failed to do.

It haunted her.

And despite the fear, despite the guilt, despite everything the Order had taught her to shut out,

Yujin still wanted to see her.

Not in distorted audio clips. Not in haunted dreams. Not as a threat.

But as herself.

Even if that version of Wonyoung didn’t exist anymore.

Flashback - After IZ*ONE’s disbandment

The dorm didn’t feel like home anymore. Half the rooms were empty, and the lights buzzed louder than usual — the way places do when they’re about to be left behind.

Wonyoung stood by the window, her profile outlined by the soft grey of a late afternoon. Her suitcase was half-zipped, untouched for hours. Behind her, Yujin sat cross-legged on the floor, packing slowly, deliberately — not because she had too much to sort, but because she didn’t want to leave yet.

“What happens now?” Wonyoung asked without turning around.

Yujin glanced up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean us.” Her voice was quiet. Barely more than a breath. “You think we’ll still be together?”

Yujin didn’t answer right away. She pressed a hand over the top of the box in front of her, not to seal it—but just as a support as she processed those words.

Wonyoung finally turned. Her eyes met Yujin’s for a second too long, her expression uncertain.

“The Order’s already evaluating us,” she said quietly. “Thinking about separate units. Reassignments. What if we don’t end up together again?”

She looked down as soon as the words left her, like she regretted them. Like she already knew the answer and didn’t want to hear it confirmed.

“We will be,” Yujin said, determined. Her voice, steady and firm. “They can move us around, but I’m not letting them keep you from me.” Wonyoung let out a quiet laugh, her ears turning red. Leave it to Yujin to say the one thing that went straight to her heart. “You always sound so sure,” she said, almost teasing—but not quite.

“I have to be,” Yujin said, standing up. “For both of us.”

A silence settled between them — not awkward, not heavy. Just full of all the things they weren’t saying. 

Yujin took a step closer, close enough to see the way Wonyoung’s lips trembled despite her steady gaze. She reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear with a touch that lingered.

“Even if they separate us,” Yujin said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Which I doubt, by the way…”

She met her eyes.

“I’ll find you again.” She continued, “Even if they erase the path.”

Wonyoung, for once, didn’t joke or deflect or tease like she usually would. She just looked at Yujin and leaned in until their foreheads touched.

“Promise?”

Yujin smiled, the kind only Wonyoung ever got to see, gentle and lovingly. And when she answered, her voice was steady. Certain.

“Always.”

The present came rushing back like a wave breaking through a fragile memory — harsh fluorescent light, the dull echo of sparring shoes on mat floors, and the ever-present silence of things left unsaid.

Yujin blinked twice. Her gaze caught her reflection in the mirrored wall across the training room. Her own eyes stared back. Tired, wary, waiting.

Still waiting.

Wonyoung wasn’t there. She wasn't gonna show up just like that.

Only the ghost of a promise Yujin couldn’t keep.

From the corner of the room, Chaewon’s gaze lingered. Sakura stood nearby, just as silent. They watched the trio — IVE — move with something heavy in their wake, guilt clinging to them like a shadow they couldn’t shake.

They had stood beside Yujin once, in another team. Now they were leading one of their own. They knew what it looked like when a leader burned quietly under the weight of responsibility. And in Yujin, in all three of the Harmony, they saw a burden far too heavy for anyone so young. A responsibility no one had fully explained to them until it was far too late.

Gaeul and Rei turned their focus to the others, guiding the rest of LE SSERAFIM through another drill. They moved with purpose, steady and sharp, as if staying in motion could quiet the grief pressing at the edges. Chaewon and Sakura let them lead. They didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer comfort, because they understood.

And pity lingered in their eyes. Not just for Yujin, but for all three of them.

The ones who survived.

The ones still holding the veil together, even after everything it had taken to do so.

Across the city, idols were fighting demons.

Fractures split open like jagged mouths — across rooftops, rehearsal halls, dressing rooms, even mid-stage.

One tore through a soundcheck in Daejeon. The lead vocalist vanished mid-note, her mic crashing to the floor. Another opened in a waiting van outside a broadcasting station. Only the manager made it out. The rest were gone before he could scream.

Some appeared quietly. Others tore the world apart with sound — shrieking distortions, Honmoon resonance rupturing under pressure, lights exploding as demons broke free from the cracks.

And the Order scrambled.

Inside a high-security surveillance hub tucked within the Seoul underground, Kim Minju sat in front of a wall of monitors. Her fingers hovered just above her headset, unmoving, while her eyes flicked between feeds — grainy footage, thermal scans, Honmoon resonance trackers, and the outlines of demons that slipped through the veil.

“Deployment ready on sector D-3,” a voice said through her comms.

“Hold,” Minju replied automatically. Her voice didn’t tremble, but her knuckles whitened where they pressed into the edge of the desk. “Let them evacuate first.” She watched one of the monitors — a top-down feed of a stadium, the fracture pulsing right beneath the stage. Shadows curled along the edges like something breathing.

At the center stood a young idol — sixteen, maybe. Alone. Her Honmoon resonance flickered in and out, unstable. But she held the line anyway.

Minju forced herself to look away.

In the black reflection of a powered-down screen, her own face stared back. Hollowed eyes. Lips pressed into a thin line. The faint gleam of the Order insignia on her collar, catching the blue of the overhead lights.

She exhaled.

“Why now?” she whispered. “Why after three years?”

There was no answer. Not from the comms. Not from the room. She doesn’t expect anyone to have an answer.

She leaned back in her chair. Around her, the hum of machinery and rapid-fire intel continued. Alerts flared. Agents moved. But her thoughts had already gone somewhere else.

Three names had been erased from the records.

But not from memory.

She thought of Yujin, how the weight never left her shoulders. The way guilt lingered in her voice, even now. She thought of Wonyoung, how her voice used to sparkle. How it now twisted with something cold. Cruel.

“What are you planning?” Minju murmured, watching as a new breach pinged red across the map. Her voice dropped lower. “What are you aiming for?”

She reached for the controls again. But movement caught her eye, a flicker on one of the rooftop feeds. SBS Open Hall. A blur sprinted across broken concrete. Too fast, too low to the ground, and far too precise to be random.

Sharp.

Almost graceful.

Minju leaned forward, heart hammering. The rooftop feed glitched. It froze, then died.

Another screen lit up. This time, the Inkigayo hallway camera feeds just outside a green room. She recognized the idols, a rookie boy group, six members. Boys barely out of high school. They’d just come off stage. Their jackets hung loosely from their shoulders. Sweat still clung to their hairlines. One was sipping water. Another joked about a missed step in choreography.

And then it happened.

The door at the end of the corridor burst open.

No fracture, no warning tear in space. Just the sound of claws scraping tile. And a blur that launched forward with terrifying precision. Minju watched helplessly as the figure moved like it was hunting for its prey. It moved low, fast, and with the eerie poise of a dancer who knew every beat of the music before it started. 

One boy didn’t even have time to scream. He was gone too quickly. Another tried to summon his weapon, barely a flicker of light in his palm before it was severed. Blood hit the lens.

Static exploded.

The final shot was of a third member — wide-eyed, frozen in place — just before the hallway feed went black. Minju sat frozen. None of the feeds came back.  She pressed her headset. “Fracture breach confirmed,” she said quietly. “Inkigayo building. Mid-rehearsal.”

“Casualties?”

“Three confirmed down. Two unaccounted for. One still fighting, barely.” Minju scrubbed the rooftop feed, frame by frame. Her eyes narrowed.

There, on the edge of the rooftop. A movement. Fast, low to the ground, unnervingly precise. The figure darted in, struck, and vanished before the frame could catch more than a glint. “It moved like a tiger,” Minju said. “Not large. But the way it hit was controlled unlike the usual demons. Like it knew the rhythm of their steps.”

No one responded. She leaned back; eyes locked on the static screen. Her hands had stopped shaking.

This wasn’t like the others.

Three had fallen. But only two had surfaced.

Now, maybe the last had shown herself.

Smaller. Quicker.

And far more brutal.

Chapter Text

The secured facility, once unfamiliar ground, had become a well-worn path beneath their feet. Mats worn smooth by countless footsteps, mirrored walls clouded by hours of reflected exhaustion.

Inside that space, the air was thick with effort and quiet determination. Yujin and Chaewon ran the sessions with silent precision. Leadership passed back and forth between them naturally, as seamless as the breath between notes in a song. Like a well-trained team, they shifted and adapted, their presence steady anchors amidst the chaos of exertion.

“Again,” Yujin said, voice steady. “From the top.”

Leaning casually against the mirrored wall, Yunjin raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “You two ever take a break? Or are we supposed to die from perfect choreography?”

Sakura, never one to miss a beat, smirked without looking up. “Better to die synchronized.”

Eunchae laughed mid-stretch, the sound breaking the intensity of the room for just a moment. “Sounds like a cult.”

Rei muttered under her breath. “You’d be surprised.”

That earned a round of laughter from Gaeul, the tension easing for a brief instant.

Under their leaders’ guidance, the two teams stopped moving like rivals and started moving like one. Defensive patterns blended. Sparring partners rotated without protest. The choreography of battle was slowly becoming a shared language.

It was hard. Grueling, even. Sweat ran like ink down bruised skin. Ankles rolled. Wrists strained. No one was spared, not even the leaders.

At one point, Kazuha and Sakura, usually composed and careful, lost balance during a paired choreography. They toppled, arms flailing, legs tangled, and bursted into laughter so sudden it startled the room.

During a water break, Rei, smug from catching Yunjin’s third misstep, leaned in with a grin. "At this point, I’m not sure you even have feet." Yunjin flicked her forehead hard enough to make her yelp before saying, “Wow. Big, coming from the girl who tripped over air last week.” And the banter continues.

A few minutes later, Rei and Yunjin found themselves in a completely different debate; whether Honmoon resonance could be enhanced by caffeine. 

“Technically,” Yunjin said, “if emotional clarity is the goal, coffee might be a spiritual enhancer.” Rei rolled her eyes. “Sure,” she said, before adding, “until your hands start shaking then it’s just spiritual chaos.”

Eunchae wandered over, holding up her neon-colored energy drink like a sacred relic. “I call this my emergency Honmoon booster.” Kazuha rolled her eyes. “That’s not boosting resonance, that’s gambling with your organs.”

From across the room, Gaeul deadpanned, “If she starts glowing in the dark, I’m blaming all of you.”

Chaewon, Sakura, and Yujin overheard her and broke into laughter, the sound echoing off the mirrored walls.

These weren’t the moments the Order cared about. No one logged them. No one gave points for softness. But they mattered. Amidst the repetition and weight of expectation, something quieter was blooming.

Trust, not the strategic kind born of necessity, but something real. Something built between them.

When Kazuha offered Rei a hand mid-spar, there was no hesitation. When Eunchae tripped, it was Yujin who caught her, wordless, and didn’t let go until she steadied. When Chaewon called for another round, no one groaned, they moved together.

They were still broken in different ways. But through bruises and shared breaths, they were becoming a team, not just shaped by the Order, but by the bond they were building together.

The world outside was bleeding.

Fractures were no longer rare — they tore through cities in broad daylight, some splitting straight through entertainment districts mid-schedule. Demons poured out in numbers the Order hadn’t seen in years. Every day, more idols collapsed mid-performance, burning out from the strain of holding the veil together.

From the isolation of the training facility, IVE and LE SSERAFIM weren’t shown the worst of it. No news broadcasts. No mission briefings. Just tightly curated updates, and Eunbi’s voice urging them to focus on training.

But they weren’t fools.

They could feel it — the Honmoon currents shifting, weakening like a fraying wire. Something in the air had changed. The Veil no longer felt distant; it felt thin, like a wall of glass pressed too tight.

Yujin’s hands trembled after certain formations. Rei struggled to sleep, drained from pushing her Honmoon resonance too far. Even Chaewon confessed to hearing a strange humming beneath her skin — something new, something unsettling.

They didn’t speak of it outright. But they were all aware.

And when they finally asked, Eunbi offered them a smile that looked too polite, too practiced and said only, 

“We’re handling it.”

But even that lie had started to lose its validity.

The more the fractures grew, the more they began to doubt who exactly “we” referred to and if there would be anything left to save by the time they were allowed out.

Then, she stopped showing up.

At first, it was barely noticeable. A missed meeting chalked up to scheduling. A check-in delayed by a supposed call from the higher-ups. But the inconsistencies began stacking. Days blurred, and soon the absences weren’t isolated, they were patterned.

Eunbi missed one morning drill. Then another. By the third consecutive absence, no one could ignore it. No announcement was made. No interim replacement was assigned. Just a silence that weighed heavier with each passing session.

Chaewon stepped up without being asked. She led with precision, with discipline, with a voice that didn’t waver but it was different. Her instructions hit harder. Her corrections were clipped. The ease she once shared with the rest faded into something colder, more mechanical. The tension wasn’t loud, but it lingered, thick and waiting. No one dared voice it, but they were all thinking the same thing:

Something’s wrong.

Yujin asked once. Not during drills. Not when everyone was alert. She waited until the mats were being rolled up, when sweat had already dried on their backs and the others were too tired to read between the lines.

“Where is she?” she murmured, low enough for only Chaewon to hear.

Chaewon didn’t look at her. Just tied the bandages around her wrist tighter and said, “She’ll be back.”

And she was. Eventually.

But the woman who returned was not the one who’d left.

Eunbi walked into the room like her body remembered how to lead, but her spirit had been carved hollow. Her steps dragged, posture stiff with something that didn’t belong to fatigue alone. She looked like someone who had been forced to choose between burning out or burning down and still hadn’t decided.

Sakura was the first to break the silence. “Unnie?” she asked gently, as if her voice might guide Eunbi back to herself.

Eunbi didn’t answer right away. She only gave a slow nod, eyes barely meeting theirs.

“You’ll know soon,” she said.

Then she walked past them.

No debrief. No apology. No directive. Just that phrase, again and again, when asked where she’d been or what she’d seen. As if saying it enough times could rewrite the silence. As if it could stitch the fractures shut. As if it could somehow keep the veil from breaking completely.

But it didn’t.

And they all knew it.

It started with a glance. Yujin to Chaewon. Rei to Kazuha. Then Gaeul stood up, slow but certain, her voice steady even though it shook with restraint.

“We deserve to know.”

Eunbi didn’t look up from the report she wasn’t reading. She only shifted in her seat, fingers tightening against the pages like they might hold her upright.

Chaewon inhaled sharply but stayed silent. She knew it was time.

“We’re trained to sense fractures,” Rei said, her gaze sharp. “You think we don’t notice the shift every time we rehearse? The way the air tears?”

“The way demons follow rhythm now?” Yujin’s voice was low, bitter. “That’s not a coincidence. That’s a call.”

“People are dying,” Sakura added quietly. “Aren’t they?”

Eunbi finally lifted her eyes. There was no denial. No outburst. No polished lie. Only the exhaustion of someone who had carried the truth too long, hoping it might never have to be spoken.

“I’ve always known this day would come.” She said at last. 

She stood, slow and unsteady, and crossed the room. A keypad clicked, followed by the hiss of a sliding door.

Minju stepped inside. No idol uniform. No old support staff gear. She wore full black Order field attire, eyes sharp, lips grim, carrying a briefcase. She scanned the room, taking in the confusion and unspoken fear etched on familiar faces, and didn’t waste time on preamble. 

“The fractures have tripled in the last three weeks. We’ve deployed nearly every capable hunter, but the strain is showing. Idols are collapsing mid-performance. Teams are being overrun. Civilians are reporting sightings before we even detect veil anomalies.”

She placed the briefcase on the nearby table before pulling out her tablet and bringing up a map. Golden lines flickered weakly, broken by red tears like veins bursting under glass. “These were our original estimates. With coordination, we had the fractures contained.”

She switched the frame.

“But this was reality.”

The red spread like rot — entire sections of the city unreachable, hunters marked inactive, veil maps bleeding with weak points. Surveillance stills caught demons mid-shift. Reports were stamped Critical. Some locations were crossed out entirely, not because the demons were gone, but because there was nothing left to save.

She glanced at Eunbi, then back at the group, “But that’s not all.”

From her folder, she drew a single-page document. The codename stamped in bold:

[TIGER]

She didn’t have to explain. Across the room, Yujin, Rei, and Gaeul froze and the tremor that passed through them didn’t go unnoticed.

They knew.

Tiger wasn’t just a demon. She was someone they had once protected. Someone who used to trail behind them in rehearsals, sleeves too long, eyes half-closed, smiling like she could crack the dark open.

Someone they had called their maknae.

Gaeul stared at the image in the report, blurred mid-shift, but unmistakable. Something split inside her.

Leeseo wasn’t just gone. She was hunting now.

The silence should have held, but Rei’s voice broke it. Not with fear, but with fury.

“You already had signs.”

Minju turned toward her, but Rei wasn’t finished, “We told you Liz spoke to us, you heard the audio of Wonyoung, you saw the interference reports!”

Yujin stepped forward, her tone sharp, honed in regret. 

“Why weren’t you smarter with it?”

Eunbi didn’t flinch. Neither did Minju. But they didn’t answer.

“Wonyoung’s voice came through the veil. She said my name like it was a warning.”

“And Liz…” Rei’s hands curled into fists. “She spoke to us, attacked us. Me. We reported that..”

Rei shook her head, disbelief edging into her tone.  “We gave you every information we knew. We told you they were back! And you—”

“—did nothing.” Yujin finished, the words cutting like steel. Her gaze didn’t waver. “Nothing but stick us in here for this collaboration and hope it fixes the world.”

The word collaboration landed heavy, a reminder that their pairing with LE SSERAFIM, had been sold as progress when it was little more than containment.

Gaeul had stayed seated all this time, unmoving, silent, but her hands trembled against her knees. Her gaze locked on the report, on the blurred image of their youngest caught mid-shift, features twisted by demonic influence.

Then her mind betrayed her.

She saw Leeseo in the practice room, hair in a messy bun, shadowing her every step during warm-ups like an eager little sister trying to keep up. She remembered the way Leeseo’s laugh would bubble up whenever Gaeul’s serious expression faltered, like cracking that mask was her favorite game.

She felt again the gentle tug on her sleeve backstage, the quiet, “Unnie, can I stand with you?” whispered as if the stage lights were too heavy to face alone.

She remembered dorm nights when Leeseo would crawl onto the couch beside her without a word, curling up until her head rested on Gaeul’s shoulder. Staying there until she fell asleep, trusting her to keep watch.

They weren’t just teammates. They were sisters, bounded by more than training. And now that same girl was out there, wearing the name Tiger .

Gaeul could no longer pretend she would come back gentle. Her breath caught, sharp and uneven, and she pressed a hand over her mouth as if she could hold it in, but it was too late. The tears blurred her vision until the report in front of her was nothing but colors and shadows.

Rei’s hand twitched at her side, fingers curling into a fist. She looked like she might speak, but the words stayed caught somewhere between her chest and throat. Yujin, standing closest, shifted — one step forward, then stopping, jaw tight as if moving any further might shatter them both.

It crushed the trio to think that the little girl who once stood beside them had become a force openly standing against them beyond the veil.

No one spoke. Even Eunbi, for all her sharpness, didn’t press. She understood too well what they were going through.

Minju lowered the report, her voice softer now, as if volume alone could blunt the weight of her words. “I know it seems like we did nothing,” she said, pausing before the next admission. “The Order’s plans were meant to stabilize everything before this got worse. Before the Tiger moved… but her attacks derailed everything.”

Her gaze swept the room, lingering on Eunchae, Yunjin, and Kazuha. The three stood frozen, the unease clear in their posture, too new to the Order’s deeper history to fully grasp the weight of what had just been implied, yet sensing enough to know this wasn’t just another name on a mission brief.

“What… what do you mean by ‘signs’ ?” Yunjin asked carefully, her voice carrying a tension she couldn’t quite name. “Who were they?”

No one answered outright.

Yujin turned away. Rei kept her eyes on the ground. Gaeul was still trembling.

It was Chaewon who broke the silence, her tone flat.  

“They were part of IVE.”

Kazuha’s eyes widened. Eunchae stepped back, the truth settling in like ice. Whispers they’d overheard in the early days suddenly sharpened into something real. The rumors about the Three Harmonies had always been spoken in hushed tones. Now, standing here, they realized what that had truly meant.

“And now,” Minju said grimly, “they’re part of something else.”

The smoke always cleared too slowly.

Leeseo stood in the aftermath of another ruined building, one boot resting lightly on the edge of a broken stage monitor. The lights above flickered and then went out completely. She didn’t flinch.

The fractures came easily now. Like cracks in a window she only had to tap.

She tilted her head, eyes tracking the soft curl of burned velvet near the edge of the stage. It had once been lined with light sticks. Now it was lined with ash. The screams had faded.

Not all of them died. She never stayed long enough to know which ones crawled away.

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that everything was going according to plan — a proof that she was doing her part.

Wonyoung wasn’t with her. Neither was Liz.

They had their own roles.

Wonyoung, Gwi Ma’s perfect whisper, had patience sharpened to a blade’s edge. She worked in illusions and ruptured trust, planting messages like traps behind enemy lines. She didn’t destroy structures, she destroyed certainty.

Liz lingered at the edge of things. Her songs no longer shattered stages but lured resonance to rot. She sang softly, wrong and twisted, in places where children still trained. So the next generation might falter before they ever stood.

But Leeseo? She tore things down.

Because someone had to make them afraid again.

As the last flicker of Honmoon resonance faded into the air, Leeseo crouched beside one of the collapsed structures, an idol training hall from the looks of it. There was a shattered mirror nearby.

She smiled faintly.

They always promised safety behind these walls.

Tilting her head, she gazed into the broken glass. She looked like the girl they once braided ribbons for, the one who tried to sneak extra dessert in the dorm kitchens, the one who clung to Gaeul’s arm backstage like the world might end if she let go.

Did they still remember that girl?

Did they still pretend she was dead?

Or worse, do they think she can be saved?

Leeseo reached toward the shard, trailing a claw across it slowly.

“She promised,” she whispered.

“She said we’d always stay together. No matter what the Order said. No matter what the training asked of us.” Her jaw clenched. A flicker of corrupted Honmoon pulsed beneath her skin, purple thread twisting like a brand.

“They all said it.”

Gaeul. Yujin. Rei. So certain they’d protect them. So sure they’d keep all six whole.

But the veil had rules, and they obeyed.

Obeyed, even when it meant letting three of them fall.

Rising from the wreckage with unnatural grace, the fractured veil hummed beneath her feet.

Somewhere deeper in the city, a new breach shimmered to life. She hadn’t caused that one, but the pull was undeniable, drawing her forward. 

As dusk settled, Leeseo’s steps grew steady and purposeful. She moved with intent, tracking every ripple of Honmoon that drifted through streets and shadows, straining to catch one particular thread in the current — the one she had once harmonized instinctively, like a child recognizing a parent’s voice in a crowded room.

Gaeul.

She had to be close, somewhere beneath the layers of Honmoon currents, hidden behind Order walls. 

Her unnie. Her supposed anchor.

The one who had promised, “I’ll be there. I’ll always be there.” But she hadn’t been. Not when it mattered most.

If all of them wanted to pretend this wasn’t betrayal, if they wanted to keep singing songs laced with guilt, then she would be the echo they couldn’t ignore.

Let them fight demons.

She would remind them of the promises they broke.

Chapter Text

The room hung heavy with a truth that shook IVE’s trio to their core. Rei sat still on her chair, fingers clenched, frustration knotted with a guilt she couldn’t shake. The blurred image on the tablet wasn’t just a shadow,  it was a reminder of the ones they’d left behind. Of the crushing ache of believing they were gone for good. Of the bitter truth that they had never been able to save them. That failure rang in her head, steady and merciless.

Across the table, Kazuha, Yunjin, and Eunchae traded uneasy glances. The truth settled like ice — IVE had once fought beside others, now twisted and taken by Gwi Ma. Only Chaewon and Sakura bore the silent weight of having known Wonyoung back in their IZ*ONE days.

A heavier question lingered in the air.

Had the previous Three Harmonies suffered the same fate?

Yujin leaned against the wall, jaw tight, every breath heavy with the sting of what had just unfolded. Gaeul stayed quiet, her gaze drifting far beyond the confines of the room. In her mind, Leeseo’s face lingered — bright-eyed, steadfast, trusting in a promise she had once made. The memory sat in her chest, dull and unrelenting.

Flashback – Training Room (Pre-IVE Debut)

Leeseo was the youngest. But it was her quiet perseverance that stood out, always pushing herself to match the group’s rhythm.

Gaeul remembered one late night, the practice room dim beneath flickering lights. Leeseo stood alone, working through a difficult choreography, each movement slow and deliberate. Her sleeves slipped over her wrists, hiding small hands that trembled with effort. Beads of sweat slid down her temples, dampening the strands that clung stubbornly to her forehead, but she didn’t stop, even when her steps faltered.

Gaeul lingered nearby, watching in silence. She saw the worry pass through Leeseo’s expression, but also the quiet hope that refused to fade.

“Unnie,” Leeseo whispered, her voice quivering. “I’m scared I’m not good enough... that I’ll hold everyone back.”

Gaeul smiled gently and went beside her. “You’re never holding us back. We move as one, we rise and fall together.”

Leeseo’s eyes brightened, a hopeful smile breaking through her exhaustion. “Really?”

“Really,” Gaeul said, her voice warm. “We’ll always be here. Together.”

Leeseo returned to the routine, her steps steadier now. That night became more than just extended practice — it was the first time Gaeul had made a promise that big to the youngest.

A promise she still remembered. A promise she broke.
One long since lost to time.

Around them, quiet movement stirred. Chaewon and Sakura exchanged brief, tense glances. Minju sat nearby, eyes fixed on her laptop and tablet, the faint crackle of her radio underscoring the urgency outside. Eunbi had already left for another meeting, drawn away to deal with the unfolding crisis.

Then the alarm split the stillness. Sharp and urgent.

The tablet flared to life with a live feed from deep in the city: a jagged fracture tearing open the streets, red energy pulsing like a wound that refused to close. Demons poured through, spilling into their world like ink bleeding across paper. Minju’s voice cut through the noise, edged with urgency. “This fracture… it’s worse than anything we’ve seen lately. They’re flooding in faster than we can contain them. Civilians are evacuating, but the damage is escalating.”

Kazuha’s voice broke in, firm. “We can’t just sit here! If the city is breaking apart, people are dying. We have to help.” Sakura shook her head firmly, calm but resolute. “It’s a bait. They want us out there — distracted, off guard.” 

Yujin’s eyes flared with fierce determination. “Bait or not, we can’t just watch this happen. People are dying right now and every second we hesitate, more people die.” Rei nodded, voice trembling with a mix of anger and helplessness. “We can’t abandon the people out there! They’re the ones paying the price for what we failed to stop.” Gaeul’s fists clenched tighter, breath catching under the weight of their past failures. “But if we rush in without caution, how many more innocent people will suffer because we walked right into their trap?”

Minju’s eyes narrowed, steady and unflinching as she met the trio’s gaze. Her voice dropped, calm but heavy with warning. “You know who’s waiting beyond that fracture — Leeseo. The real question is, are you ready to face her? To survive?”

The question hung in the thick air, slicing through the silence like a blade. No one dared answer.

Outside, distant screams and sirens rippled on the wind, grim reminders that the city was burning.

Inside, the silence grew dense, suffocating.

Eunchae’s voice broke the stillness, trembling but steady. “If it is a trap... how do we avoid walking right into it?” Chaewon met Sakura’s gaze. “We need a plan… contain the fracture without falling for their lure.” Yunjin straightened. “We move carefully, protect civilians first. Stay focused.”

Minju’s fingers moved over the keyboard, calling in reinforcements. “IVE and LE SSERAFIM will deploy together. Stay alert, no mistakes.”

Rei swallowed hard. “We end this, before we lose anyone else.”

The room held a fragile resolve, ready to face the fracture, and the ghosts waiting within.

The night trembled beneath the chaos of demon swarms tearing through the fractured city streets. The Honmoon’s illusions worked overtime, weaving a fragile veil of calm over terrified civilians who scrambled blindly, their senses dulled and confused. Among the demons moved Leeseo — silent, deadly, a figure almost indistinguishable from the dark forces around her.

Leeseo moved with the patience of a predator waiting for her prey. Her corrupted Honmoon bled jagged waves of crimson and violet, etched into her skin like permanent demonic brands. Each mark declared her place in Gwi Ma’s legion—his hunter, his executioner. Lesser demons parted silently, unwilling to cross her path. They knew exactly who she was, and what she was meant to do.

Ahead, ZB1 held a tight line. Spears, blades, and shields blazed with Honmoon resonance, holding firm against the tide. Sung Hanbin stood at the center, voice sharp and sure above the din.

“Hold formation! No breaches!”

Kim Jiwoong and Zhang Hao moved in perfect unison, spear and twin blades cleaving through the swarm. Ricky, Park Gunwook and Kim Gyuvin guarded the flanks with deadly arcs of steel, while Seok Matthew and Kim Taerae braced the rear, shielding civilians scrambling behind makeshift barricades. Han Yujin stayed close to the center, eyes sharp but searching—his strikes short and precise, covering gaps rather than leading the charge.

It was a strong formation. Strong enough for most threats.

But Leeseo wasn’t most threats.

She struck fast, too fast for them to catch. One heartbeat, a shadow at the edge of the fight; the next, inside their line. Her claws caught Jiwoong’s spear mid-thrust, wrenching it aside with a twist that jarred his arms. A knee drove into his ribs before he could recover, knocking the wind from him and sending him to the ground. 

Hao stepped in, twin blades flashing. But she slipped under, hooked her claws into his jacket and yanked him forward into a brutal headbutt that sent him reeling — blood already spilling from his nose. Afterwards, she shoved him aside like discarded furniture.

“Block her! Block —!” Hanbin’s command was cut off. Leeseo was already in front of him, her clawed gauntlet snapping up to catch his sword mid-swing. Corruption blackened the steel talons and the blade hissed where metal met metal, resonance sparking in the clash.

“You’re quick,” she murmured, almost curious. “But not enough.”

Her other claw tore across his chest, fabric ripping, skin splitting under the force. He stumbled back, breath hitching and before he could recover, her kick swept his legs out from under him.

Ricky charged from the left, a fierce cry tearing from his throat. She didn’t even glance his way, spinning to catch his strike with one claw and sweeping his legs in one fluid motion. His head struck the pavement with a dull crack.

Gyuvin lunged next, spear angled like a lance. She stepped into it, letting the tip scrape along her shoulder, then drove both claws deep into his gut. His breath tore out in a ragged gasp before her knee buckled him over. Matthew and Taerae rushed her together — one striking high, the other low — but she slid between them, fast as water. Her hands locked on their collars; she slammed her forehead into Matthew with a sharp, sickening crack, then spun and hurled Taerae into the barricade hard enough to rattle the steel.

From the flank, Gunwook moved with urgency, swinging his blade to fend off demons as he ducked and scooped Ricky from the ground. His strikes were precise each swing keeping the enemies at bay while he backed toward the barricade. Jiwoong’s spear clattered uselessly nearby as it fades into nothingness; he grabbed him, blocking a lunging demon with the hilt of his weapon as he dragged Jiwoong to safety. He didn’t pause, twisting to sweep a snarling demon aside with a swift kick before helping Gyuvin crawl out of the battlefield, all the while keeping his eyes sharp for any shadow of Leeseo. 

A flash of movement caught his eye, Yujin. For a split second, the urge to run to him surged through him, but he forced himself to turn away. He could hold his own; his priority was getting his hyungs out alive.

In the chaos, Yujin froze for a heartbeat. The flash of her face under broken streetlights — sharpened and monstrous — still carried the faint shadow of the trainee he’d once passed in the halls. The quiet girl who’d murmured “Thank you” when he helped gather her fallen notebook pages.

But the memory slipped away as her claws slashed again, yanking him back into the fight.

It was surgical destruction. She wasted no energy — each blow meant to disable, humiliate, and collapse their line. Within moments, ZB1’s formation shattered. Injured members were dragged back while the rest scrambled to shield the civilians.

A sudden shift in the sounds of battle caught her attention, a ripple of movement, a surge of Honmoon resonance. Her head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing at the second wave pushing through the smoke.

LE SSERAFIM.

Their Honmoon flared together, weaving a shield of light through the chaos. But even in its glow, the flicker of recognition between them was clear. Sakura’s grip cinched tighter around her twin kama, knuckles straining white. Eunchae’s stance faltered for a heartbeat, a faint tremor sliding down her arm. Yunjin’s voice barely carried, swallowed almost entirely by the roar around them.

“It’s her…”

Chaewon remained silent, her jaw clenched tight, the tension visible in every line of her face.

They had already seen the report earlier. They already knew the truth. 

But knowing it and facing it were different things.

Leeseo didn’t hesitate. She slipped through the last of the lesser demons like smoke slipping through a cracked door, crimson-violet light trailing behind her in sharp, jagged bursts. Her movements were swift and precise, like a tiger closing in on its prey.

Chaewon struck first, blade flashing toward her midsection. Leeseo caught it between her claws, sparks hissing where metal met corrupted resonance. “Too slow,” she murmured. A sharp shove sent Chaewon sliding several feet back, boots scraping asphalt.

Sakura came in next, cutting sharp from the side, but Leeseo pivoted with inhuman precision, driving an elbow into her ribs before snapping a knee upward. Sakura staggered, breath knocked from her lungs. Then Yunjin charged, hammer sweeping low with crushing force. Leeseo absorbed the blow against her claws, sidestepping as if the weight meant nothing. Her elbow found Yunjin’s ribs; her claw slashed across her midsection, forcing her to fold forward.

Eunchae’s cry tore through the clash as she lunged, gauntlet flaring with Honmoon. But before she could reach Leeseo, sharp claws raked across her side in a brutal slash, pain exploding through her body as blood blossomed across her uniform. Staggering, Eunchae barely had time to react before Leeseo caught her wrist and hurled her into a half-collapsed wall.

Kazuha was on her in the next heartbeat, her strike fierce and fluid. But Leeseo simply faded back a step, letting the blade cut only air before sliding past her guard entirely.

“So this is what they left us for?” Leeseo scoffed, voice dripping with cold disdain. “Their precious new idols. Quite a disappointing replacement.”

The air between them reeked of corrupted Honmoon, crimson and violet flaring harder against the clean resonance of LE SSERAFIM’s weapons. Each strike carried the same unspoken truth, this wasn’t just another demon. This was one of their own.

Smoke swirled, torn open by the sound of rushing feet. Another light cut through the corrupted haze — clear, sharp, and familiar.

IVE.

For a moment, no one moved. Gaeul’s glaive lowered slightly, her stance tight but ready. Rei’s fingers clenched around her blades, poised to slash or throw at a moment’s notice. Yujin stood frozen, breath caught in her throat, eyes locked on Leeseo.

Leeseo’s gaze slid to them — slow, deliberate, like a blade twisting in a wound.

“Unnies,” she said, voice laced with mockery. “Did you miss me?”

“Leeseo…” Yujin’s voice broke, thick with pain. Rei stepped forward, blades gleaming, ready to strike or hurl. “What did they do to you?”

Leeseo’s eyes darkened for a moment, a bitter shadow flickering across her face before she gave a cold, almost resigned smile. “They opened my eyes.”

Behind her, the fracture screamed open wider, tearing the street as demons poured through like a tidal wave. ZB1’s battered survivors dragged the injured behind a barricade. Nearby, LE SSERAFIM formed a fierce line, blades and Honmoon blazing, not only holding their ground but fending off demons attempting to flank IVE or attack civilians and wounded idols scattered around.

But the tiger’s focus wasn’t on them anymore, her eyes locked on the trio she had ached to confront, standing before her at last.

She lunged forward, claws flashing like lightning. Rei’s blades cut high and low in perfect sync, but Leeseo caught them mid-motion, snapping one in half and tossing the pieces aside. Gaeul swept in from the flank, glaive arcing toward Leeseo’s ribs, but the strike met only air before claws drove her back. Yujin surged forward, sword striking with sharp precision — each blow weighted with years of shared history and heartbreak. “If you’re still in there, fight it!” she yelled, voice raw with desperation.

Steel rang against claw, sparks leaping in the dark. For a fleeting moment, their eyes locked eyes before Leeseo leaned close, whispering a venom only Yujin could hear.

“I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.”

With a brutal twist, she broke free, sending Yujin stumbling back. “You always were too gentle,” Leeseo said, her tone a knife-edge between mockery and pity.

Gaeul surged forward, her glaive cutting through the air in swift arcs. She forced Leeseo to retreat step by step.  “Come back to us,” Her voice broke, trembling with desperate hope.

Leeseo caught the glaive mid-swing, their locked gazes igniting a flash of memory between them — late-night rehearsals, whispered encouragement, and promises made in the quiet. She crushed the moment with a twist of her wrist, knocking Gaeul’s weapon from her grasp and sending it skittering across the pavement.

Yujin didn’t hesitate. She came in from the flank, her strikes heavy, precise, every blow meant to push her back. For a heartbeat, the clash was even.  “You’re not our enemy,” Yujin ground out through clenched teeth. Leeseo leaned in close, their weapons locked. “Am I not?”

From the sidelines, Chaewon’s voice rang sharp and tense. “IVE, hold your ground! She’s trying to isolate you!”

The fractures tore wider, forcing LE SSERAFIM to break formation just to shield the civilians. Ricky and Gyuvin from ZB1 cut in from the right, thinning the swarm, but the chaos only thickened. 

Hanbin’s voice rang from the barricade, “Pull back! Regroup!”

Leeseo didn’t so much as glance their way.

She slammed her heel into Rei’s side, the force snapping her balance. Pain lanced through her ribs, but she refused to fall. She shifted her stance to strike again — too slow. Claws swept her legs, and the ground slammed the air from her lungs. Gaeul rushed to cover Rei, but a brutal backhand from Leeseo sent her staggering, blood beading along her cheek. Yujin lunged one last time, driving her blade down — but Leeseo caught it between the jagged talons of her gauntlet, metal shrieking under the pressure. With a sharp twist, she wrenched the weapon free and shoved Yujin back.

For a moment, all six locked eyes with her—their youngest, standing against them.

And Leeseo smiled.

The fractures roared wider behind her, swallowing the air with the sound of shattering streets and the rush of demons spilling through.

Her eyes burned with a fury so raw it felt like fire beneath her skin. Every desperate plea from them, every word of hope and forgiveness, only fanned the flames of her rage. She couldn’t hear them as sisters anymore. Not after what they’d done.

They left me to die.
They turned away when I needed them most.

Her fists curled so tight her nails bit deep into her palms, shaking from the weight of everything she refused to let go. She wasn’t lost. She was shattered — and every jagged piece cut with the memory of their betrayal.

Flashback — Leeseo’s recollection of the Trial

The shadows whispered cruel lies, seeping into her mind like venomous fog. Gwi Ma’s cold and merciless voice echoed relentlessly through the darkness, forcing memories as vivid as every heartbeat.

She saw herself alone, trapped within crumbling ruins, walls collapsing like the last remnants of hope. Shapes flickered in the distance — her unnies — turning away, their backs disappearing into choking smoke. Their hands, once warm and steady, slipped through hers like wisps of shadow, leaving her grasp empty and trembling.

The pain in her chest flared, sharp and unforgiving. She called out, pleas torn from ragged breaths, but no familiar voices answered. Instead, demons surged forward, claws raking her skin, striking her down again and again. Each blow was a brutal echo of her solitude, a relentless reminder that no rescue was coming.

“Unnie…please…” Her voice cracked, desperate and raw. But the ruins swallowed her cries, and silence closed in like a tomb.

Leeseo didn’t doubt the memories Gwi Ma planted in her mind. The betrayal was too vivid, too visceral to be false. There was no salvation here, only the cold, crushing weight of abandonment.

Her strikes grew more violent, wild and unpredictable. Neither LE SSERAFIM nor IVE could hold her back as their weapons clashed against her claws, but each blow seemed only to stoke the fire in her eyes.

The battlefield trembled under her fury, the air thick with despair and chaos.

Then, without warning, the atmosphere shifted. The cold settled in, even the demons hesitated, movements faltering as a silence seeped in, heavy and unnatural. A new fracture tore open in front of them, and through it stepped Wonyoung and Liz. Their presence was chilling, a dark calm that cut through the chaos like a blade.

They closed the distance to Leeseo with hands outstretched, voices soft but firm, as if to pull her back from the edge of oblivion.

“Leeseo,” Wonyoung’s tone was ice, cutting through the air, “we were meant to overwhelm them — not indulge them.”

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.

Leeseo’s fury trembled, then wavered. She swallowed back the roaring tempest inside her, frozen by the cold commanding words of Wonyoung.

Around them, IVE and LE SSERAFIM watched in stunned silence.

Chaewon’s hands shook uncontrollably, eyes wide and unblinking. Beside her, Sakura’s breath hitched, disbelief etched sharp across her face. That was Wonyoung — their innocent and loving maknae — transformed into something cold, distant, and terrifying. Even the other LE SSERAFIM members, battered and bloodied, recoiled slightly, the dark aura emanating from the fallen trio wrapping the air in palpable fear.

Yujin, Rei, and Gaeul’s hearts clenched painfully, voices caught in their throats. They stood frozen, helpless before the ones they had once fought beside — familiar forms now edged with pain and change. Each breath grew heavier, burdened by the weight of bonds strained and the painful reality of loss.

Sakura was the first to break, her voice trembling, raw with desperate hope. “Wonyoung… please, come back to us… this isn’t you!”

But Wonyoung’s response was swift and merciless, a rapier raised coldly, aimed with deadly intent at Sakura. It wasn’t just rejection; it was a final declaration that the girl they once loved was gone.

Yujin’s heart broke again, the hollow void where Wonyoung’s warmth had lived spreading like creeping frost. Without hesitation, she surged forward, blade flashing in desperate defense of Sakura. The clash of steel rang out — a sharp, haunting melody of loss entwined with lingering love.

Pain and guilt twisted tightly inside Yujin’s chest with every strike. 

If only I had held on tighter... if only I had saved her.

Wonyoung met her blade with a faint, almost mocking smirk. Liz and Leeseo exchanged a glance, their lips curling into knowing smiles, as if the outcome had already been decided.

Liz’s gaze swept over the hunters, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Seems we’ll be indulging them after all.” Leeseo’s grin widened. “And I’m not the only one this time.” They stepped forward in unison, weapons dancing, their movements coiled with restrained violence. The air thickened around them, heavy with the promise of a storm they had no intention of ending too soon.

Nearby, Rei stood frozen, eyes locked on Liz’s indifferent glare. Her voice cracked into a whisper, “Liz… please...” Liz’s eyes flickered once, a fleeting shadow of something unreadable, before hardening again, an impenetrable barrier between past and present as her scythe sliced cold and precise through the air.

Gaeul’s breath hitched, tears blurring her vision as she faced Leeseo’s storm of fury. Her glaive spun in a desperate dance against the relentless assault. “Leeseo, stop,” she pleaded, voice raw and trembling. “We’re still your family!” But Leeseo’s growl shattered the plea — fierce, raw, and laden with agony. Each strike was a cry drowned in betrayal, a chasm carved deep by lies and manipulation.

All around them, LE SSERAFIM members bore the battle’s toll. Eunchae gritted her teeth, blood seeping from a deep slash across her side, breaths shallow but steady as she refused to falter. Sakura’s knees buckled briefly under exhaustion, but she steadied herself with sheer will, eyes burning with determination. Kazuha moved slower now, her usual fluid grace replaced by heavy, uneven steps, bruises and cuts marking her skin. Yunjin’s hands trembled slightly as she gripped her weapon tighter, exhaustion tugging at her limbs, but she stayed alert, ever ready to shield her teammates.

Chaewon’s eyes darted anxiously between the wounded and the battle, exchanging a brief, wordless glance with Sakura. 

The battlefield trembled beneath fractured bonds and battered bodies, as the IVE trio faced their fallen family — not just in combat, but in a heart-wrenching reckoning of all that had been lost.

Around them, the clash of steel and roar of Honmoon energy continued unabated. Demons surged forward relentlessly, snarling as they mixed with the cries of idols fighting to protect the fractured city. Dust and smoke thickened the air; flashes of Honmoon blades cut through shadowed chaos.

In the communications panel room, Eunbi and Minju watched the live feed in heavy silence. Minju’s fingers hovered over the controls, her breath shallow as she struggled to process what unfolded before them.

Eunbi’s eyes were wide with helplessness, jaw clenched tight. Minju’s voice was tight, barely above a whisper. “We trained Wonyoung. We fought alongside her. And now…” Her eyes flicked back to the screen, where shattered bonds played out in agonizing clarity. “I don’t know if we can bring her back… or any of them back.”

Both watched in despair as the battlefield raged on, idols and demons locked in brutal combat, while this fractured family faced their past.

Blades clashed, ringing sharp in the air as Yujin met Wonyoung head-on, Honmoon flaring, blue against a corrupted red. Sparks burst with every impact, each strike steeped in more than skill; it carried years of unsaid words, lingering glances, and a bond that had once teetered on the edge of something more.

Nearby, Rei and Liz moved in a quieter storm. Their blades wove together in fluid arcs, eyes finding each other in quick, almost wary beats between the strikes. Precision masked the strain, but beneath it lived the weight of shared moments and the ache of distance that betrayal had carved. In the breathless pauses, memory stirred — small smiles, and touches that had meant everything—now buried under the shadow of what they’d become.

Meanwhile, Gaeul faced Leeseo. Their movements weren’t just attacks—they were the jagged echoes of a bond that had once been unshakable. Every swing was a wordless argument, every parry a plea neither wanted to admit. The weight of sisterhood pressed heavy between them: fierce, raw, built on years of trust now splintered into something sharp enough to draw blood.

Then, as if sensing a force beyond the fight, the fallen trio suddenly halted. Their strikes ceased mid-motion; their gazes sharpened and turned away from IVE. Without a word, they stepped back, retreating deliberately toward a widening fracture in the cracked street. The fracture pulsed faintly, beckoning them to return.

As they paused at the edge, Wonyoung’s voice cut through the charged silence — cold, clear, and certain.

“This is only the beginning.”

And then they were gone, swallowed whole by the fracture’s glow, leaving the street thick with the aftertaste of their presence — unease, grief, and the bitter truth that this wasn’t an ending.

The IVE trio stood rooted to the spot, chests heaving, hearts pounding hard enough to hurt. No Honmoon could knit shut the wound those words had left. But the world didn’t grant them the luxury of stillness. The fracture split wider, and demons spilled out like a breaking wave — snarls, claws, teeth. There was no time to mourn. No time to think. Only the relentless push to survive and the fight that refused to wait.

“Form up! Protect the civilians!” Chaewon’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding.

In an instant, IVE moved as one. Blades flashing as they moved to shield the wounded and stem the relentless swarm. Rei darted to intercept demons attempting to flank from the left. Gaeul’s glaive swept in wide, punishing arcs, forcing a sliver of space between friend and foe. Yujin stood rooted at the center, sword raised, a wall of resolve against anything that dared push forward.

The battlefield dissolved into chaos, every clash ringing in their bones. There was no space for thought, only the desperate rhythm of holding the line. Each heartbeat felt heavier than the last, each breath thick with dust, blood, and the sharp tang of steel—a reminder that dawn was still nowhere in sight.

Exhausted but unyielding, IVE and LE SSERAFIM stood shoulder to shoulder, chests heaving, refusing to let the line break. Demons stalked the ruined streets, slipping through the veil’s fragile illusions, while scattered civilians clung to whatever safety they could find. Side by side with other idols, the two groups fought on, carving thin paths to safety. Every swing, every step, was nothing more than stubborn defiance — because stopping would mean letting the darkness take everything.

At every fracture, the Honmoon’s blue light pulsed outward in steady waves, cool against the searing chaos. It wove itself through the jagged tears in the veil, stitching them closed.

When reinforcements finally broke through, the sound of boots and hurried voices filled the space. Medics dispersed, stepping carefully over fallen debris to reach the wounded. Eunchae was among them, her uniform heavy with blood from her injuries, her breathing ragged. As they pulled her back to safety, Chaewon’s gaze found Yujin across the chaos. No words passed between them, only the shared vow to hold the line for as long as it took.

By the time the last fracture faded, Yujin, Rei, and Gaeul still stood, watching over both the civilians and the idols who had fought beside them. The weight of loss pressed on their chests, but now was not the time to crumble.

For now, their duty was clear: be the wall, keep the dark from breaking through, and face the next wave side by side.

When the chaos finally settled and the Order regained control, IVE retreated to the quiet refuge of a nearby headquarters. Their bodies ached, breaths shallow and uneven, every movement weighed down by exhaustion and pain. The battle’s toll pressed on them like a silent storm.

Minju hurried over, her expression tight with concern as she scanned their faces. The room was thick with unsaid words, a heavy silence that seemed to press on their chests. Eunbi, already poised to leave for another urgent meeting, gave a brief, knowing nod and slipped away without a word. No explanations were needed, their shared burdens spoke louder than any conversation.

Breaking the silence, Minju’s voice was steady but worn. “Eunchae’s stable… but critical. That slash from earlier had done its damage, she’s in surgery now. The rest of LE SSERAFIM are under care too.” Her eyes searched each of them, waiting.

Yujin, Rei, and Gaeul only nodded slowly, minds tangled in grief and guilt. Memories of the fight, the cold eyes of the fallen trio, and the harsh truth that those they once called family were lost.

Minju’s gaze found Yujin. Beneath the exhaustion in her face, she saw a faint flicker of the girl who had once shattered under the weight of losing Wonyoung—except now, that light had hardened, calcified into something darker. Wonyoung wasn’t truly there anymore, only a shadow that stirred both longing and dread. She swallowed hard, powerless against the tide of pain. This war was more than blades and Honmoon, it was a battle fought in fractured hearts.

Yujin felt it again. The cold, twisting hollow where Wonyoung’s warmth had lived. She wasn’t just a memory; she was every whispered promise in the dark, every grueling hour of training, every fragile new beginning. Yujin had vowed they would never be torn apart. Now that vow lay broken, replaced by a stranger’s cruel smile. How had she failed so completely? Every lost moment pressed down on her like a blade, and in the quiet, she understood the cruelest truth: she hadn’t only lost Wonyoung, she’d lost part of herself.

Rei sat nearby, fingers curling tightly in the fabric of her sleeve. The name Liz still carried the weight of hope, memories of quiet laughter and unshakable calm. But now, that image was fractured, replaced by an empty reflection wearing Liz’s face. The guilt cut sharp. How many moments had she let slip away? Was this still Liz or only what the world had twisted her into? That question alone could wound deeper than steel.

Gaeul kept her silence, her fists clenched until her nails dug into her palms. Wonyoung, Liz and Leeseo — they had been family. She could still hear them whispering their dreams in the dark, still see the faint curve of their smiles. Now those memories lay heavy in her hands, sharp as broken glass, cutting deep whenever she tried to hold them.

“We’ll find our way back… somehow,” she murmured to herself.

They would face this together. The path ahead was long, uncertain, and unforgiving, but a small flame still flickered within. They understood that as long as they held onto each other, there was hope. A chance to reclaim what was lost.

And no matter how difficult the journey would be, they would find a way to bring them back.

Because some answers lingered just beyond reach, held by those who bore their own scars, whispered by shadows, carried in memories that refused to fade. Their next step waited in a place long spoken of only in hushed tones — a quiet echo from the past, from those who once carried the weight of similar loss.

Chapter Text

Sakura stood at the vending machine, tapping impatiently until a can of coffee rattled down with a metallic clunk. She bent to grab it, popping the tab with a practiced flick before noticing Minju’s stare.

“You’re not supposed to be walking around,” Minju blurted, the words escaping before she could stop herself.

Sakura smirked over the rim of the can. “And you’re not supposed to sneak around with flowers like some secret admirer. What, planning to confess to the first patient you hand those to?” Minju’s face flamed. “It’s — it’s just courtesy,” she stammered, hugging the bouquet tighter.

“Courtesy, huh? Then I’ll wait for mine at my bedside. Maybe daisies.” Her grin widened when Minju sputtered, eyes darting anywhere but her face.

“Y-you—”

“Mm.” She sipped her coffee, eyes glinting with mischief. “Careful with that, Chaewon might get jealous if she sees you blushing this much with me.”

Minju opened her mouth, then closed it again, flustered.

Sakura laughed under her breath, finally relenting. “She’s awake, by the way. Resting, but awake. Her room’s just down the hall, she's probably waiting!" She winked before sauntering off, leaving Minju's heart beating faster than she liked.

Minju lingered in the doorway before stepping in, bouquet still pressed to her chest. She pushed the door open quietly, not wanting to disturb if Chaewon had drifted off again. Her room was dim, the curtains drawn halfway. The steady beep of the monitor was softer than she expected, and it was oddly comforting. Chaewon sat propped up against the pillows, pale but smiling faintly when she saw her step inside.

“You brought flowers?” Chaewon teased, eyeing the bouquet. “What, did Sakura bully you into it?”

Minju laughed softly, shaking her head. “No. I… just thought the room looked like it needed some color.” She set them on the bedside table, arranging them until they stood upright. “Besides, you’re impossible to visit empty-handed.”

“Empty-handed would’ve been fine.” Chaewon’s gaze softened. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

For a moment, the room softened. The sterile white walls, the faint beeping of machines — all of it blurred into the background beneath the comfort of being here with her. Chaewon’s fingers lingered on the petals a little longer than necessary, brushing them with quiet care, and she found herself watching the small gesture too closely. But then Chaewon’s expression shifted.

“Minju… about yesterday. The fractures, Leeseo, Liz and —” She exhaled shakily. “— and Wonyoung. The way they appeared, how strong they’ve become…”

Minju sat on the edge of the bed, her posture stiff. “I know. Wonyoung…” Her voice faltered, and she pressed her lips together before continuing. “She affected all of us. Even from a distance, it was crushing. like standing against her isn’t even something we can do.”

The weight of that truth pressed down on them. Her hands trembled slightly, and she quickly hid them in her lap.

Chaewon noticed anyway. Without thinking, she reached over, brushing her fingers lightly against her hand. A quiet reminder that she was there. “Hey. You’re not the only one shaken… we all are. It’s okay.”

The touch was fleeting, but it lingered, enough to stir something Minju tried to bury beneath her practiced composure. She met Chaewon’s eyes, found something unspoken there. Tired, yes, but steady and grounding.

“…Do you really think the Golden Honmoon ritual is the only way?” Chaewon asked quietly then.

Minju blinked, startled by the question. “…You think it’s the wrong path?”

“I think…” Chaewon’s gaze darkened. “We’re not ready. We can’t even face them head-on without falling apart. And the longer this goes on, the more our cover slips. People will start asking why their idols keep ending up near disasters. Why groups disappear. We’re walking on glass, and every step just makes it crack louder.”

Minju’s fingers twitched, then settled against Chaewon’s, drawing quiet strength from the contact. “Then we find another way,” she said. “I’ll reach out to the others. To Eunbi, to the rest of IZ*ONE. Maybe someone knows something we’ve missed.”

Chaewon’s eyes softened at her determination, but she didn’t fully let go of her doubt. “Sakura mentioned the archives once. The old records the Order keeps locked away. If there’s an answer hidden anywhere, it’s there.”

Minju’s lips parted, surprised at her suggestion. “The archives? Those are off-limits even for us.”

“Which makes me think they’re hiding something that could help.” Chaewon’s voice was steady, deliberate. “If the ritual isn’t the only way… we need to know.”

Minju hesitated, caught between fear of what they’d uncover and the pull of the possibility. Her gaze drifted back to Chaewon — wounded and weary, but unyielding — and something in her chest tightened.

“…Then we’ll find a way,” she whispered, each word carrying the weight of her resolve.

Chaewon smiled faintly, leaning back against the pillows. “Good. That’s what I like about you, Minju. Once you set your mind, nothing can stop you.”

Heat rose in Minju’s cheeks again, though she covered it with a small sigh, pretending to scold. “Rest first, then talk about liking me later.”

Chaewon chuckled, eyes slipping shut, her smile not fading. “Fair enough.”

But she stayed by her side, fingers brushing the bouquet absentmindedly, as if grounding herself in the small and ordinary thing amidst the chaos. When her eyes lingered on Chaewon, she allowed herself — for just that moment — to want something more than survival.

Night had fallen by the time Minju left, the hospital wing was still, save for the low beeping of monitors and the occasional shuffle of nurses down the corridor. The bouquet she had brought earlier rested on the small table by Chaewon’s bedside, its vivid colors striking against the room’s sterile, muted glow.

A soft knock came at her door.

Chaewon stirred, blinking against the dim glow of the bedside lamp. “Come in,” she said, her voice rough with sleep and still carrying a hint of fatigue.

The door creaked open, and Sakura slipped inside with that familiar sly curve tugging at her lips. The look in her eyes said enough. Sharp and amused, already carrying some unspoken joke at Chaewon’s expense. She leaned back against her pillows, bracing for it.

“You really are hopeless,” Sakura said, nodding toward the bouquet the moment she stepped inside. “The mighty Chaewon, undone by a girl with flowers.”

Chaewon shot her a look as she shut the door behind her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She smirked before going quiet, letting the silence stretch, listening to the faint hum of the monitors and the soft rustle of the sheets. Then she crossed the short space to Chaewon’s bed. Her steps careful and slow, voice lowering as she leaned against the railing. “Chaewon… about what you told her… how much did you say?”

Chaewon stilled, fingers curling into the blanket. “…Just that maybe the archives have answers,” she admitted after a pause. “Nothing more. I didn’t go into detail.”

Sakura narrowed her eyes. “So you didn’t tell her that we’ve been there? What we saw?”

She shook her head firmly. “No. I kept it short. Mentioned, not explained. If word gets out we stepped foot in there, we’re finished. You know that.”

For a moment, the silence pressed heavy between them — haunted by the memory of endless sealed cases, names etched like gravestones, whole histories confined to vaults as if knowledge itself were a curse. A truth that grew heavier simply by being known.

The quiet thickened, heavy as a second blanket over the room. Sakura’s expression tightened, unease flickering in her eyes. “Keeping it from her feels wrong,” she said quietly.

“Protecting her isn’t wrong,” Chaewon countered, her tone steady but tired. “If Minju carries that knowledge, it puts her at risk. And us. Secrets like that don’t stay buried forever — better she only knows the surface for now.”

Sakura exhaled sharply, her gaze drifting around the room. The soft hum of monitors and the faint flicker of the bedside lamp seemed almost alive, a fragile pulse against the cold sterility. For a moment, it felt like the only thing holding them steady — a quiet defiance beneath the weight of unspoken truths that could unravel them all.

The car hummed low as the city lights streaked past, casting fleeting reflections across the tinted windows. Yujin sat in the corner seat, arms crossed loosely and eyes half-focused on nothing. Rei leaned against the glass with lips pressed together, while Gaeul absentmindedly traced the faint scar peeking from under her sleeve — a mark from the last battle that still hadn’t healed right.

Their manager’s voice broke the silence. “The Order’s halted the joint training with LE SSERAFIM for now. Too many things are happening at once, they’re reassessing the next moves.” She glanced at them through the rearview mirror, hesitating before continuing. “But… you’ll unfortunately have to appear in public again. Music show stages are back on. The cancellations stirred suspicion already, and the fractures are interfering with other idols. The higher-ups think it’s vital to reestablish control.” Frequent deployments to handle the fractures had left the Honmoon more vulnerable, as fewer idols were performing while trying to patch the veil’s weakening spots.

None of them answered. The weight of the last fight still clung to their bodies — bruises, and scars both hidden and visible. Every time Yujin closed her eyes, she saw Wonyoung’s smile twisting into something unrecognizable. Rei still heard Liz’s voice, cracked and warped, like a knife against her ears. Gaeul’s scar burned not just from demon claws but from the memory of Leeseo’s gaze. Once their youngest, now a weapon wielded against them.

Their manager sighed, softer now. “You’ve all been so quiet lately. I know you’ve been pushing yourselves to your limits… I can see the exhaustion. You’re carrying so much. More than the Order admits, I think.” She glanced at them in the mirror again, concern flickering in her eyes, though she could only grasp so much of what is exactly happening. “The meeting with Red Velvet is still on, right after the music shows. You’ll have a chance to speak with them… maybe it’ll help, at least a little.”

She forced a small smile, trying to lighten the air. “Until then, let me worry about the schedules. You just… hang on, okay?”

For the first time that night, Yujin let out a small breath of gratitude, Gaeul gave a nod, and Rei managed the faintest smile. They appreciated her effort — even if the scars and silence between them carried more weight than words could ever explain.

Beneath the overworld’s fragile lights, in chambers carved of ruin and shadow, three figures walked the deathlike path toward the throne. The air was heavy, saturated with the metallic aftertaste of consumed souls, lingering like incense. Gwi Ma sat in waiting, his voice reverberating through the stone like a second heartbeat.

“The plan is working,” he said, almost pleased. “The fractures widen. My horde has feasted,” his smile curled into something grotesque, “and so have you.” His eyes narrowed, a gleam of displeasure beneath the triumph. “But you —” his gaze swept over the trio “— went beyond the plan.”

Leeseo’s chin lifted, defiant despite the faint tremor at her jaw. “We overpowered them. We could have ended them there.”

A crack echoed as Gwi Ma’s hand struck the armrest of his throne. His laughter was low and bitter. ““Do you truly think it ends with IVE? Fools. Striking down the Three Harmonies is nothing, merely the bare minimum expected of you” His voice curled with venom. “The Golden Ritual is the seal. Break that, and the veil collapses. That is how the world ends. That is how freedom is reclaimed. That is why I break each generation, to be closer to that goal.”

His words crawled over their skin, reopening memories they wished buried — the ruins where they had first broke, the tortures that had wrung screams from their throats until silence was all they had left, the endless suffering that bent them into the creatures they were now. Even here, the memory clung like a second skin, never loosening its hold.

Gwi Ma leaned forward, voice dropping, deliberate. “And yet…” His eyes slid toward Liz, the faintest grin curling at the edge of his lips. “Your little reunion tells me something. A weakness to be exploited. Perhaps it is time you… pay them a visit.”

His command still echoed through the demon realm, his laughter sinking into the marrow of the fallen.

Far above, in the guarded depths of the Order’s hidden chambers, another silence pressed close — quieter, but just as suffocating. Three figures stood outside a sealed door, their hushed voices edged with unease.

“It already begun,” one murmured, gaze flicking toward the distant corridors. “The consequences of our carelessness… IVE is already paying the price.”

Another’s arms folded tightly, her jaw tense. “We can’t stand idle. They’ll need guidance, but the Order’s eyes are on us. Every step we take is measured. If we overreach…”

“…we’ll doom them faster,” the third finished, her tone sharp with restrained bitterness. She glanced toward the thick glass that revealed the sealed room within.

Behind the pane lay two figures, unmoving, suspended in a quiet mockery of sleep. Tubes and arcane machines anchored them to fragile life, faint patterns glowed beneath their skin — fractured Honmoon, pulsing erratically, like broken melodies straining to hold together.

The three women fell silent, grief sharpening the stillness.

“He played us like fools,” one whispered at last, voice breaking faintly. “Gwi Ma knew. He always knew. He doesn’t forge weapons from grief — he breaks you, shatters all hope until there’s nothing left but his voice. And this time…” Her throat caught. “This time, their fallen members serve him completely. Living weapons forged from what they once were. That’s a danger we’ve never even experienced. Not even the ones before us.”

Her companion’s eyes narrowed, a tremor of guilt passing through. “With us… them… his hold was never complete.” She looked back toward the unconscious figures in the room, her voice faltering into something close to prayer. “We pulled them back before he claimed them fully… but they’ve never opened their eyes again.”

For a moment, none of them spoke. The weight of years pressed between them, heavy as chains.

Finally, the eldest exhaled. “IVE will fight to save their own. Just as we once did. And if we don’t tell them the truth soon, they’ll stumble into the same mistakes, maybe worse.”

Her gaze lingered on the dim chamber, on the faint glow that pulsed weakly beneath pale skin. “If they fight to save their fallen members now, they’ll only find Gwi Ma’s will staring back at them. And this time, he isn’t content to leave them half-broken.”

A silence settled over the three, heavy with things left unsaid.

For the first time in years, it was not only their own ghosts that haunted them. It was the reflection of another group. Six young girls, too young to carry so much weight, walking the very path they had bled upon.

Chapter Text

The lights, cameras, and forced laughter of public life were beginning again. IVE wasn’t the only group called back to work—though the public wouldn’t know just how bad things had gotten. Press releases cited “brief health-related breaks” for LE SSERAFIM and “temporary scheduling adjustments” for ZB1. In reality, almost all of ZB1’s members were in critical condition, and LE SSERAFIM was only just clawing their way out of recovery — Eunchae’s situation still as dire as ever.

But none of those made headlines. The industry couldn’t afford for people to ask why idols were collapsing, or why comebacks were being pushed back without warning. For now, the spotlight fell on those still standing.

IVE was everywhere — back on music shows, smiling through interviews, and tonight, seated under the bright pastel set of a variety show, microphones clipped to their collars as if nothing in the world was wrong.

And so, they smiled through it all.

Rei’s laughter came late. Too late. She answered questions, made small jokes, clapped when the host teased them — but every so often, she went rigid. It started small; a twitch in her fingers, a blink that lingered too long.

It was during a break that it hit her fully.

A faint, restrained melody slid under the studio chatter, like a lullaby submerged in dark water. She froze, spine straight, nails biting into her palm as a memory surged. Liz’s eyes weren’t Liz’s anymore. That melody, the same one, threading through the air like a rope tightening around her throat. The taste of blood, iron and warm. Rei screaming her name and receiving only silence.

“Rei? Hey.”

Yujin’s voice snapped her back. She was crouching beside her now, brows drawn. Gaeul hovered just behind, watching. Rei blinked, forced a smile. “Just tired. We’ve been at this since morning.” Gaeul didn’t look convinced, neither did Yujin. But the cameras were about to roll again, so they let it go.

The show wrapped late. Backstage, Yujin lingered, exchanging polite words with the MC. Rei sat apart, phone in hand, thumb moving without seeing. Until the melody returned.

Not faint. Not distant. Clear.

“All that strength,” a voice murmured, silk over steel, “and you still couldn’t end me.”

Her breath hitched. The air thickened, taut and waiting. Even the staff around them faltered, glancing over their shoulders as if sensing a change they couldn’t name. Yujin’s head turned sharply. Gaeul’s stance shifted.

Rei rose, heart pounding, eyes scanning empty corners and caught it.

A shadow, wrong in its shape, gliding just beneath the studio lights, hugging the walls. Then movement. Fast. Low.

The scream came a second before impact.

Yujin moved first, but another presence cut through the air — a silver arc, swift and precise. The demon hit the ground in two neat halves, twitched once, and dissolved into nothing. Giselle stood where it fell, her blade dissolving into nothing, expression unreadable. “Thought I smelled something rancid.”

From the shadows at the edges of the room, the rest of aespa emerged — Karina’s eyes sharp, Ningning already sweeping the walls for fractures, Winter trailing behind with her attention fixed on the dark beyond. Karina’s gaze found Yujin’s,

“We’ve got this breach contained. Get your team out. Now.”

They didn’t argue. Not with that tone. Not with the way the veil above them felt strained, as if one wrong note would tear it wide open.

The van doors slammed shut. The silence inside was deafening. Not even the low hum of the engine could drown out the ragged breathing of three people who’d just survived.

Rei sat pressed against the far window, knees drawn up, trying to make herself smaller. The sound of the demon’s scream before it dissolved still rang in her ears. Her nails dug crescents into her own arms, clinging to something solid. Gaeul’s knee bounced uncontrollably. She had been silent since they ran. Now, her leg jittered so hard the seat rattled. Every time the van hit a bump, she flinched.

Yujin sat in the middle, back straight and shoulders tight. She was the leader — at least that’s what the world saw. Inside, she wanted to tear the van apart with her bare hands for how helpless she’d felt.

To the public, IVE had just finished a flawless show. The news tonight would praise their talent, their performances. No one would know Eunchae had almost bled out to her death, that half of ZB1 is in comatose state, that demons in the shape of their fallen members had tried to kill them.

Gaeul’s voice finally broke through, fragile and hoarse, “how long… before we end up like them?”

No one had an answer.

The van kept moving, carrying them forward like ghosts in transit.

The Order’s main building was quieter than usual. Reports of fractures had kept hunters in and out at all hours, leaving the halls with a restless hum rather than their usual rhythm.

Minju paused outside Eunbi’s office, hand hovering at the door before she finally knocked.

“Come in,” came the weary voice from inside.

Eunbi sat behind her desk, a half-drained cup of coffee beside a stack of field reports. Her shoulders were stiff, her expression set in a way Minju remembered from IZ*ONE’s harsher missions—it was the face of a leader balancing duty with exhaustion. Minju stepped in and bowed lightly before closing the door. “Unnie, do you have a moment?”

The older looked up, softening briefly when she recognized her. “For you, always. What’s wrong?”

Minju crossed the room, clasping her hands together. “It’s about Chaewon. She… suggested we look into the archives. She thinks there might be records, old accounts about what happens when Honmoon is corrupted. Or anything that can help us.” Eunbi’s brow furrowed. “The archives aren’t just open shelves, Minju. They’re sealed for a reason. Access isn’t granted without cause.”

“That’s why I’m asking,” She pressed gently. “Things are worsening. IVE — Liz, Wonyoung, and Leeseo — they’re not just missing anymore. We saw them fight under Gwi Ma’s control.”

Eunbi didn’t answer. Her silence was confirmation enough.

Minju lowered her voice, her words careful but firm. “I also reached out to the others. The rest of IZ*ONE. They want to meet. To help or at least to understand. If we go to the archives, it won’t just be me and Chaewon. It’ll be all of us.” Eunbi’s hands curled against the edge of her desk. “Minju… the Order is stretched thin. Fractures are opening almost daily. Hunters are exhausted. I can’t afford to pull resources into personal searches, not now.”

She leaned forward, her tone gaining quiet urgency. “It isn’t just personal. IVE… they’re carrying so much already. They just faced their own members, the same people they thought were gone, and now they’ve returned full of hatred, of anger. If the archives hold even a hint of a way to help them survive this… we can’t turn away.”

Taking a deep breath, she continued, “and it’s Wonyoung… our Wonyoung. She was the one we always tried to protect. Now… seeing her like this, turned against everything she once stood for… it’s more than any of us should have to carry. Yujin, Rei, and Gaeul… they’ve been forced to face her. Them. And the weight of that, of knowing what they’ve become, it’s crushing.”

Eunbi looked away, jaw tight, as the weight of her words sank in. The room felt smaller somehow, heavy with the memory of battles and the lives now twisted by Gwi Ma.

Minju didn’t back down. “I’m not asking lightly. I’m asking because if we do nothing, we’ll lose them. All of them.” Eunbi exhaled slowly, tension easing just slightly. “…All right. I’ll see what I can do. There’s no guarantee they’ll approve it, and the archives don’t give up their secrets easily. You’ll need to be ready for what you find.”

Relief flickered in her chest. “We will. IVE deserves that chance. And Wonyoung… we can’t let what she’s become be the end of her story.” For a long moment, Eunbi just studied her — saw the same stubborn resolve that had carried Minju through every battle years ago. Finally, she leaned back, a ghost of a smile breaking through her exhaustion.

“You really haven’t changed,” she said softly. “Still pushing past the walls the Order builds.”

Minju’s lips curved faintly. “Someone has to.”

For the first time that evening, Eunbi allowed herself a small, tired smile. “Then I’ll trust you. But… be ready. Some truths don’t want to be unearthed.”

Minju stepped out of Eunbi’s office, the weight of the conversation still pressing against her chest. Her phone buzzed immediately. Yujin’s name flashed across the screen. She answered without hesitation.

“Yujin?”

“Minju,” Yujin’s voice was tight but controlled. “Backstage after the taping, something slipped in. A demon went for Rei’s blind side. Giselle cut it down before it touched her. Karina clocked a fracture and told us to clear out — aespa stayed to handle it. We’re already heading home.” Minju’s pace quickened down the hall. “And Rei?”

“She’s hearing Liz. Not faint, clear. It spikes, then vanishes. We try to trace it and it’s gone, always a second too late.”

“Don’t stop anywhere,” Minju said. “Go straight to the dorm. Do not split up. The prototype we seeded there is amplifying the Honmoon currents. Liz won’t breach easily inside that field.”

“Will it hold?” Yujin asked, doubting the prototype given the situation.

“It should muffle any attempt at corruption and distort her pathing. It’s not citywide, only your unit. Lock down as soon as you’re in. I’m on my way.”

A beat of silence, then Yujin exhaled. “Got it.”

“Keep Rei close. If the voice comes back, keep an eye on your surrounding.”

“Will do,” Yujin said, steadier now. “We’ll be at the door when you arrive.”

The call ended. Minju was already moving, sending a quick alert to the Order to reinforce the dorm’s protection.

From the other side of the veil, Liz followed their van like a current follows the tide. Her work wasn’t brute force like Leeseo’s. No, her task was more subtle and intimate, unraveling them where they thought they were safe.

Rei’s unease was a thread she could tug at any time. Yujin’s constant vigilance another she could fray. Gaeul’s taut focus, a silent tension waiting for the slightest poke. The demon had failed tonight, but it didn’t matter. She had left her mark. They would carry her presence into their sleep, whether they sensed it or not.

She drifted deeper into the veil currents, fingers gliding over invisible threads. Testing. Probing. Where could she strike next? Where could she make them falter without leaving a physical wound?

And as she moved, memories of the Trial surfaced — unbidden and unwanted.

Flashbacks - Liz’s recollection of the Trials

The ruins were endless.

Not merely stone and shadow, but a labyrinth alive with malice. Walls breathing, corridors shrinking and stretching like the ribcage of a beast that had swallowed her whole. Each step Liz took was a punishment; her bare feet sliced open on jagged rubble, her palms raw and bleeding from clawing at walls. The air itself was thick, cloying, tasting of rust and ash, and every breath scraped down her throat like sand.

Leeseo was gone. She had seen her dragged into the dark, her scream cut short.
Wonyoung too, her silhouette torn away into the shadows, swallowed before Liz could even scream.
And Liz had been left behind.

No one came for her.

Her Honmoon stuttered in her chest, a dim glow flickering against the oppressive dark. Instinct took over — it reached outward, blind and trembling, seeking a connection, someone.

“Rei…” Her voice was a rasp, barely sound, but she forced it on. “Where are you…”

She poured everything into the name—every bruise, every fractured breath, every fragment of hope she hadn’t yet let die. Her Honmoon flared, trembling on the edge of collapse, vibrating through the stones, begging for someone to anchor her, to prove she wasn’t truly alone.

But the ruins swallowed her plea whole.

Shadows rippled around her, pleased. They laughed in silence, and from their depths came his voice. low, resonant, and relentless.

“Always calling… always reaching. Tell me, child, how long before you learn no one answers?”

Gwi Ma’s words were knives, carving illusions into her mind with each syllable. Walls caving in, smoke choking the sky, faces she loved turning away, and their hands slipping through hers like mist. Demons surged from the dark, all teeth and claws and hunger. They tore into her, and though pain raked every inch of her body, it was nothing compared to the hollowness in her chest. Each strike only reinforced the truth that beat like a drum in her skull.

No rescue is coming.
No IVE members. No friends. No Rei.

“Rei… anyone… please…” Her voice cracked and broke. It became a sob, then a scream, as she hurled herself forward — reaching with all the Honmoon she could muster. It seared through her veins, an agonizing light desperate to touch something, anything.

But nothing came. Nothing answered.

Only cold stone. Only silence. Only the echo of her own voice, returning to her as if mocking the very idea of hope.

Hours bled into days, days into something worse. Time no longer existed — only the cycle of running, clawing, screaming until her throat was shredded raw. And Gwi Ma’s presence lingered. Unyielding and patient, never allowing her to find even a whisper of escape. By the time the ruins spat her out, if that was even the right word, she was no longer Liz. She was hollowed out, reshaped by the void she had begged to release her. Her Honmoon no longer sought warmth; it had twisted into a weapon honed by abandonment, sharpened by pain.

She had reached and reached. And every time, the world had left her unanswered.

Now she was the scream — endless, unrelenting. A voice that would rip through heaven and earth if it had to, forcing them to hear what they’d chosen to ignore.

Beyond the streetlights, where the city became a blur of neon and shadow, Liz lingered just outside the area. The hum of the prototype was faint, but it vibrated like a stubborn insect against her skin. An amplified veil, stitched awkwardly over their dorm. She reached for it, fingers brushing an unseen current. It hissed back at her, the air crackling, and for a moment her shape faltered, shivering between what she had been and what Gwi Ma had remade.

A smile curved her lips. “New tricks, huh?” she murmured to no one, voice low and silken. “Would’ve been nice if you’d had this before you lost me.” The field held, pulsing in defiance. Not perfect, though. not yet. She pushed, and though the barrier fought back, her presence threaded through like smoke, thin and elusive. She could still graze them, slip whispers beneath their skin.

Rei’s pulse, she felt it spike. Yujin’s jaw, tightening as if she tasted her on the air. Even Gaeul, the pillar that she is, carried a tremor she shouldn’t have. Liz chuckled softly, withdrawing just enough to stay unseen. “Flawed little thing,” she whispered. “I’ll find a way. I always do.”

And with that, she melted back into the dark, leaving only the faintest echo trailing inside the dorm. Soft, familiar, and impossible to trace.

“Rei…”

Rei’s head snapped up. The pen in her hand clattered onto the floor, the sound sharp against the quiet hum of the dorm.

“Rei?” Yujin’s voice cut in from across the table, low but alert.

She swallowed hard, fingers curling against her knee. “Did you… hear that?” Her voice was barely a whisper, like speaking any louder might invite something in. Gaeul glanced up from her phone, brows furrowed. “Hear what?”

“That,” Rei insisted, staring toward the curtained window. Her Honmoon stirred beneath her skin, restless.

“It sounded like…” She didn’t finish. She couldn’t.

Yujin’s chair scraped softly as she rose, scanning the room. The barrier Minju had left was still intact. She could feel its thrum, stronger than anything they’d had before. “Stay put,” Yujin muttered, moving toward the window. Her voice was steady, but Rei could see the subtle tension in her shoulders.

“Rei…”

It came again, softer, inside her head this time. Like a memory brushing the edges of thought. Warm and familiar. Cruel in how much she wanted to believe it.

Rei’s breath hitched. “She’s out there,” she whispered, voice breaking. Yujin froze. For a long second, none of them moved, the air thick with something that didn’t belong to them. Then Gaeul stood, slipping her phone into her pocket, calm but unreadable. “Minju said this thing is holding. If it’s her… she can’t get in.” Rei nodded, but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Because she wasn’t sure which was worse, that Liz couldn’t come in or that she still wanted her to.

The door opened with a soft hiss.

“Report.” Minju’s voice was even, clipped, the kind she used when she didn’t want to waste time. Rei flinched. Yujin straightened almost instinctively, shoulders squaring as if caught doing something wrong.

“You’re fast,” Gaeul said, tone neutral but eyes sharp. “I have to be, we’re not dealing with just any demons here.” Minju replied, placing a slim black case on the table. Her gaze swept the room, lingering briefly on each of them, until it fixed on Rei.

“What did I miss?”

Rei tried to answer, but her throat felt tight. “She… got through,” she finally said, low and uneven. Minju’s eyes narrowed. “Define ‘got through.’”

“Not inside,” Yujin cut in quickly, like she was trying to shield Rei. “Just… her voice. Enough to rattle us.”

Minju didn’t move for a second. Then she exhaled slowly, flipping the case open, and began powering up the devices inside, the screen glowing faintly. “So, the prototype isn’t holding as well as I thought,” she murmured, mostly to herself, but loud enough for them to hear. “Of course they’d push this out half-baked.”

Rei’s fingers clenched on her lap. “It’s better than nothing,” she muttered, defensive despite herself. Minju glanced up at her, expression unreadable. “Better than nothing isn’t good enough when she’s already touching the edges,” she said quietly. “Next time, she might not just whisper.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Even the barrier’s faint hum felt fragile.

Minju knelt by the central node of the barrier, fingers brushing over the thin line of light humming faintly along the floor. She tapped a small device from the case onto it, and the barrier responded with a dull flicker. “See that?” she said, voice calm but edged. “Oscillation. It’s stable on paper, but under pressure, it wavers every seven seconds. That’s where she’s slipping in.” Rei leaned closer. “Can we fix it?”

Minju didn’t look up. “We can patch it. Won’t stop her completely, but it’ll hurt if she tries again.” Gaeul crossed her arms. “So it’s still just a wall with cracks.”

“Every wall buys you time,” Minju replied, adjusting the settings on the device. The barrier’s hum deepened, steadier now. “Time’s all we can win until we end this.” She finally glanced up at them. “Stay alert. She’s testing you. And if she got a reaction…” Her eyes flickered to Rei again. “…she’ll come back for more.”

In the currents beyond, Liz lingered, unwilling to leave just yet. The threads hummed with everything she had stirred. The unease, the vigilance, and the strain. She could push again, dig deeper, and make them crack. Almost.

A sudden pull in her mind cut through the tension — a command, jagged and deliberate. “Return,” Gwi Ma’s voice hissed through the void. She obeyed, retreating to the darkened hallways of the demon realm. When she arrived, Gwi Ma’s eyes glinted with the same cold amusement she had learned to fear.

The air was thick with the faint hum of corruption. She knelt before the jagged throne where Gwi Ma lounged, one clawed hand draped lazily over the armrest, his presence oppressive yet unnervingly unhurried.

“They’ve improved,” she began, voice steady but threaded with contempt. “The prototype veil reinforcement… it held. Almost. I could still slip through enough to reach them.” Gwi Ma’s lips curled into a low, humorless chuckle. “Ah, the Order and their toys. Always tinkering. Always late. It won’t save them.” His blackened eyes glinted as he rose slightly, gaze falling on her with cold amusement. “But you found their weakness?”

“They’re reactive, not proactive,” Liz replied smoothly, lifting her head just enough to meet his gaze. “If I could brush their minds beneath this new ‘shield,’ it’s flawed. They’re still blind to what lurks right outside.”

For a long moment, silence stretched. Then Gwi Ma’s focus shifted past her, settling on the far side of the throne room.

Wonyoung stood there, quiet, shadows coiling at her feet as if the void itself clung to her presence.

Gwi Ma’s grin sharpened. “Perhaps it’s time, then.” His voice dropped to something almost serpentine. “You and Leeseo will have another task soon. But she…” His clawed finger extended lazily toward Wonyoung. “…she will move next. There are things only she can reach.”

Wonyoung’s expression didn’t change, but the air around her rippled with restrained power. Liz felt it, even from across the room, a reminder of what they had turned her into.

“Prepare yourselves,” Gwi Ma finished, sinking back onto the throne. “The Order’s little shield won’t matter when we strike where it hurts most.”

The night passed quietly. Too quietly.

IVE waited. On edge, Honmoon weapons within reach, senses stretched thin for the slightest tremor of a fracture. But nothing came. No whispers under the door, no sudden rips in the veil, no trace of Liz’s presence.

By dawn, relief hovered like a fragile mist in the room, but it wasn’t peace.

“She’s gone,” Rei muttered, half in disbelief as she sat cross-legged on the floor, weapon dissolving back into light. “Just… gone.”

“Good riddance,” Yujin said, though the tension in her jaw betrayed her words. Minju, perched on the edge of the couch with her tablet open to veil readings, didn’t look up. “No. This isn’t over.” Gaeul glanced at her. “You think she’s planning something?”

“I think she’s waiting,” Minju replied. “And that’s worse.” She finally set the tablet down and exhaled. “We can’t keep reacting like this. If they’re changing tactics, we have to get ahead of them.” Rei frowned. “And how do we do that? They’re not exactly leaving us a trail to follow.” Her gaze hardened with quiet resolve. “We go deeper. Eunbi’s agreed to help me access the Archives. Sealed records, old hunter logs, maybe even traces of what Red Velvet left behind. Somewhere in there, there has to be a way to counter this corruption before it swallows us whole.”

“You want us to come?” Yujin asked after a moment.

“Not yet,” She answered. “But there’s something you can do. Focus on the meeting with Red Velvet. If anyone knows how close we’re getting to the edge… it’s them. Whatever they’re willing to tell you, take it seriously. We might not get a second chance.”

“They never talk about it,” Gaeul said quietly, almost to herself. “Not even when we were sworn in as the Three Harmonies. They stood there the whole ceremony, but…”

“But said nothing,” Rei finished.

Everyone knew what Red Velvet’s silence meant—and what it might cost to dredge up their past.

“Which should tell you how bad this has gotten,” Minju said, her tone firm. “If they’re breaking their silence, it’s not for small talk. Listen to them. Every word. Even what they don’t say.” The three exchanged uneasy glances. Meeting those who had walked the same cursed path was daunting enough — but meeting them now, with cracks already forming in their own team, was worse. Intimidation paled in comparison to their desperation for answers.

Liz was gone for now. Yet the silence felt less like relief and more like a breath held too long.

Minju stood, tablet tucked under her arm. “I’ll be out for a bit,” she said, adjusting the strap of her bag. “Need to set up a meeting with Eunbi, then… check in on Chaewon and Sakura. See how they’re doing and update them on what happened.”

Yujin arched an eyebrow, leaning back against the couch. “Chaewon, huh?” Her lips curved in the faintest smirk.

She froze mid-step, eyes flicking to Yujin with a flat look. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Yujin replied innocently, though her grin widened a fraction. “Focus on staying alive,” Minju muttered, brushing it off as she left. The door clicked shut behind her. Rei giggled softly, while Gaeul hid a grin behind her hand.

The teasing faded as quickly as it came, leaving a heavier silence in its wake.

Yujin leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “So… Red Velvet.” Rei’s gaze flicked up. “The rumors?”

Gaeul nodded slowly. “That they brought their own back. Two of them. Nobody’s sure how, it’s just whispers. No one knows if its even real but right now….” She didn’t continue, closing her mouth. Rei hesitated, fingers curling on her lap. “Do you think… we could… bring them back?” Her voice cracked on the last word, eyes darting to Yujin and Gaeul like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to ask. “When they… don’t look like they even want to come back?”

The question hung there, stark and aching.

Yujin opened her mouth, then closed it again. She stared at the floor, jaw tight. Gaeul reached over and placed a steady hand on Rei’s knee, grounding her.

“We’ll find out,” Yujin said finally, her voice low but firm. “We have to.”

In the far reaches of the demon realm, beneath the trembling glow of the veil that hung high above like a thin, rotting film, Wonyoung stood still. The air was thick with the low hum of corruption, the sound of something alive gnawing away at the barrier between worlds.

She tilted her head back to look at the veil. Cracks of sickly light bled through it, revealing fleeting silhouettes of the overworld beyond. Flickers of a life that no longer belonged to her.

“They still sing as if the world will hold for them,” she murmured, voice flat, almost detached.

Behind her, footsteps scraped against the blackened ground. Leeseo stepped out from a ridge of twisted rock, her Honmoon corrupted and pulsing faintly under her skin. “Are you ready?” She asked, her tone carrying that impatient, restless edge.

Wonyoung’s gaze lingered on the veil for a moment longer before lowering. “Almost. The fractures are spreading. When I move, they won’t have time to react.”

A deep rumble passed through the realm, as if in agreement.

She turned away from the veil, eyes hard, and for the first time, the corruption beneath them surged upward — like shadows stretching hungrily toward her feet, drawn to her will.

“Let them believe they’re safe,” she whispered, finally. “It’ll make breaking them… effortless.”