Chapter Text

When Celine asks to meet with Rumi not long after the Idol Awards, Rumi insists on going alone.

Mira and Zoey do not approve.

Their argument is simple:

As one, Mira and Zoey state, “She sucks.” In one of the most out-of-character sights Rumi has ever seen, the two of them are leaning over mostly intact breakfast bowls and staring Rumi down.

She crosses her arms. “You love her,” Rumi says flatly. “Both of you have hung on her every word for years. You do not think she ‘sucks’.” Her fingers provide sarcastic air quotes to match the girls’ quote.

“Well yeah, obviously, I’m like, a huge fan of the Sunlight Sisters,” rambles Zoey, “but that was before we found out–oh what was it, two weeks ago–that she knew you were half-demon and explicitly encouraged you never to tell us.”

Rolling her eyes, Rumi fishes a piece of tofu out of her bowl of kimchi jjigae and pops it into her mouth. She chews contemplatively, then says with her mouth half-full, “It’s sweet that you’re blaming her, but I’m the one who chose to follow that advice. I just don’t think it’s fair to put my bad decisions on Celine.” 

“Rumi…” Mira starts to scold.

Rumi swallows and raises her hands placatingly. “That’s not me being self-deprecating, I swear! I really don’t think it’s fair. Celine has a lot of reasons for everything she taught me, even if some have turned out better than others. She’s…” Rumi takes another bite and taps her chopsticks on her chin as she thinks. She sighs. “...complicated,” she finishes lamely.

Leaning forward, Zoey meets Rumi’s eyes with an unsettling intensity. “You literally felt like it was okay to ask her to kill you.” Her lip wobbles a bit as she says it.

Before Zoey can start a blubberfest (like they haven’t already had at least one a day since the Idol Awards and two or more since Rumi fessed up about her post-Idol Awards visit to Celine), Rumi reaches across the table and pushes Zoey’s forehead with her chopsticks until the girl is seated properly once more.

Seizing an opportunity, Rumi stealthily snatches a piece of pork belly from Zoey’s jjigae bowl and slides it into her own. She takes a sip of barley tea. “I would like to point out that Celine, very specifically, did not kill me.”

“And that’s better?!” Mira exclaims.

Rumi furrows her brow. “...Yes?”

Groaning, Mira drops her head into her hands. “Ruuuumiiiii,” she whines, “why are you like this?”

“I think Celine is a big part of that answer,” Zoey says matter-of-factly. “Which is why you should not be going to meet with her alone!”

“You guys are dramatic,” Rumi grumbles, quietly extending her arm towards Mira’s bowl and a large piece of kimchi floating on top. Just as her chopsticks close around it, Mira whacks her hand and Rumi retreats with a yelp. Taking her face out of her palms and glaring, Mira draws the bowl in closer to her with a feigned growl.

Rumi shrugs and returns to munching her own kimchi. “Guys. It’s Celine. This is the woman who raised me. I’ll be fine.”

“Will you, though?” Mira’s tone is serious. Next to her, Zoey pokes around her bowl of jjigae and frowns.

Biting her lip, Rumi thinks on Mira’s question. For as much as she’s trying to appear cool and confident, there is a part of her (an unfortunately rather large part) that’s jittery at the prospect of meeting with Celine properly since becoming fully out with her demon patterns. 

Is she scared? No. Celine wouldn’t hurt her.

Not even when Rumi begged her to.

Is she anxious?

Truth be told, yeah, she is. Rumi loves Celine, but ever since the Idol Awards, when she thinks on her relationship with Celine, she can’t help but feel like she ripped down a stage curtain to reveal a very different dynamic, one that had been hidden in the wings the whole time and is now thrust suddenly into the light, one that she has no idea how to direct.

“I should be,” Rumi reluctantly admits, setting down her chopsticks, “but it’s…it’s complicated.”

Zoey and Mira reach out in tandem to lace their fingers through Rumi’s own.

“If you really think you want to do this alone,” Zoey starts, “then we support you.”

“But if you need us at all–”

“For anything–”

“Then you call us, okay?” Mira’s stare bores holes into Rumi.

Rumi ducks her head, worries her lip, and nods. “I will,” she promises.

Satisfied, Mira and Zoey pull back.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Rumi picks her chopsticks back up to continue her breakfast. Across the table from her, Zoey scrunches her nose and makes a funny face.

“I could’ve sworn I had another piece of pork belly in here–” Zoey catches Rumi’s eye as Rumi shovels the stolen piece directly into her mouth, Mira cackling in the background.

“RUMI!”

---

“You sure about this, Rumi?” Bobby glances at her in the car seat next to him.

Rumi smiles back at him, tight-lipped and controlled.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “I’m sure.”

The vibrant, lively landscape of Seoul proper has long since faded into the monotony of dirt roads and dense woodlands. (Sure, they’re pretty when you explore deep enough into them, but Rumi prefers the urban junglescape of the big city any day.)

“Thanks again for driving me,” Rumi says. Part of her had contemplated teleporting, like she did the night of the Idol Awards, but so far that’s not a skillset that she feels confident in using at all, let alone to cover the fifty plus kilometer distance from the HUNTR/X penthouse to Celine’s residence.

“Anytime,” Bobby chirps, cheerful as ever. Even through the absolute PR nightmares the girls (Rumi) have put him through the past couple of months, he’s remained stalwart and attentive, an unending font of positivity that Rumi’s honestly a little envious of.

She hopes he handles it okay when they break the news about the whole demon hunting thing to him eventually (because Rumi’s tired of hiding it, and after everything he’s done for them, the man deserves the full truth). He can be a little prone to dramatics from time to time, but hey, that’s why he meshes with HUNTR/X as well he does.

The car turns onto a hidden off-road and chugs along up a dusty driveway that cuts through the woods until a clearing opens to reveal an old but well-maintained hanok, a traditional house that’s been inherited by each successive generation of demon hunters. Red pines encircle the grounds, stretching leafy limbs to the sky, centuries-old sentries to these hallowed grounds. A few stray sticks rustle in the midday breeze, trapped between giwa roof tiles. Past the hanok, the grounds become open, paved with dirt and knee-height stone walls that lead up a hill to a vast space covered in burial mounds. A few jolcham oaks shiver, the many ribbons tied on their branches stirring to life with every passing breath of wind.

Rumi’s childhood home.

Bobby pulls up to the building and turns the car off swiftly, as if he’s scared of disturbing the peace with engine noise any more than he already has. 

He rolls down his window as Rumi hops out, getting her attention with a light brush on her elbow.

“I’ll be right outside,” he says, “in case you need anything.”

Rumi smiles. She knows that Bobby doesn’t really understand the ins and outs of her and Celine’s relationship, but she does know that he’s clocked enough of it to realize that her interactions with Celine aren’t always…positive. He doesn’t ever comment on it, but his insistence on driving her here in his beat-up sedan (which he refuses to give up, despite Rumi’s persistent offers to buy him a new one) and his simple reassurances are his ways of showing her that hey, he’s here for.

Squeezing his hand before stepping back, Rumi tells him, “Thank you, Bobby. I’ll keep that in mind.” She lets her eyes roam over his car one more time. “And you’re sure I can’t buy you a new–?”

“Uh, no,” Bobby argues, mock glaring as he leans his car seat back and grabs a novel from his bag. “If I wanted a new car, I’d buy one myself, thank you very much. That 3% you pay me is no joke.”

“Actually, we were talking about maybe upping it–”

“Would you go inside already?” Bobby scolds. (There’s no real bite to it, though; there never is.) “I’m at a really juicy part of this book and I won’t stand for your procrastinating tactics any longer.” He sniffs haughtily and flaps his hand. “Now go on, get!”

Rumi snorts. “You wound me, Bobby. Imagine what my fans would do if I revealed how you talk to me.”

Bobby gasps and whips his head towards her. “You wouldn’t–”

“No,” she laughs, “I wouldn’t.”

“Oh, just go already,” he grumbles, sticking out his tongue.

Grinning, Rumi sticks out her tongue right back at him. It’s easy to forget he’s her manager, sometimes, in the relaxing moments when he finally feels comfortable enough to act like a friend. “Okay, okay, I’m going!”

Mood bright, Rumi walks up the stone path to the entranceway and taps loudly on the wooden door frame before sliding it open and cautiously calling out, “Celine?”

“I’m in here.” Celine’s voice calls from a few rooms down, audible through the thin paper and wood walls. “I’ve put some hot water on for tea–your usual?”

“Yes, please,” Rumi answers. She shucks off her shoes at the door and grabs her house slippers from the rack where they’ve always been, as long as Rumi could remember. The slippers are simple except for the quilted patterning of golden Honmoon lines on the arch that covers the front of her foot and leaves her toes and heels bare. Celine had sewn this particular pattern in as a gift, when Rumi first summoned her saingeom, and a promise, that once the Honmoon was golden, Rumi could finally be free.

Glancing at the guest slippers, Rumi sighs. She doesn’t particularly want to deal with Celine asking why she’s not wearing her gifted ones, even if a miniscule shiver runs down her spine at the wavy lines of gold.

Rumi walks into the main hallway. The wooden floor creaks despite the lightness of her steps. She draws the sleeves of her sweater (purple, knitted, a gift from a fan) down around her wrists absentmindedly as she passes through a few sliding doors and into the kitchen.

Before Celine can say a word, Rumi grabs a tray and sets it up with two cups, small bowls, and spoons. She reaches around Celine to open a cabinet and grab a jar of honey and packet of sugar, exactly where she knew they’d be. Celine hums her approval as Rumi fills one bowl each with honey and sugar and places them back in the cabinet just as Celine moves the handheld pot to the tray as well.

Rumi picks it up with a nod, inhaling deeply to properly take in the aroma of omija-cha (the five flavor tea is one of her favorites). She takes the tray into an adjacent sitting room and sets it down on the low table before seating herself cross-legged on a floor cushion. Her back is ramrod straight, posture absolutely perfect.

Celine takes an extra moment in the kitchen, longer than Rumi’s used to, but before she can get up and check if she needs help, Celine’s elegantly seated herself across from Rumi and placed a small plate and napkins next to the tea pot. Rumi’s mouth waters as she sees several choco pies stacked neatly on top.

The corners of Celine’s eyes crinkle, betraying her joy at Rumi’s delight even as the rest of her face remains calm and composed. She pours the tea and scoops a spoonful of honey into it while Rumi, unable to hold back, grabs a choco pie and bites straight into it. (Rumi would like to point out that she did not shove it entirely into her mouth, which is an already impressive display of restraint.)

Neither one speaks.

Rumi swallows her bite, takes the proffered tea wordlessly from Celine and drinks. It’s a little sweeter than she’d like, the amount of honey a preference of her child self specifically, but the gesture is sweet. Her gaze wanders out the window, to the surrounding grounds.

Everything about this moment is pulling her straight back to her childhood, to the many tranquil moments she had growing up in Celine’s company, to the comfort and safety she’d always felt here, even amidst flimsy paper walls.

And then her gaze lingers on the dirt path to the burial mounds, and she remembers how, not even half a month ago, she got down on her knees and begged the woman in front of her to kill her.

That same woman who still can’t seem to properly look at her.

Rumi had thought about using that one concealer (the one she’d used in the past to cover up her marks for occasional promos) to hide the patterns stretching greedy tendrils across her face, had thought about grabbing a pair of gloves to match her sweater, despite the weather being more summer than fall, despite the sweat already trickling down her back from the sweater alone.

(She doesn’t think she could’ve worn that even if she wanted to, though. Not if the way her girls had argued about her wearing the sweater alone was any indication.)

There’s an odd tension in Rumi’s chest.

What is she supposed to say here?

Did she ever have a plan? Or was she just hoping Celine would take the lead?

A naive hope. Celine has never dealt with confrontation head-on. Even now, even though there’s clearly a part of her that’s happy that Rumi is happy, she can’t seem to last more than a second of looking at Rumi before her eyes slide to the side.

Chewing her lip, Rumi watches Celine sip her tea and mirror Rumi’s earlier pose, glancing out the window. 

Compared to the cowed Celine who showed up at the girls’ penthouse a week ago, wanting to talk to Rumi about the night of the Idol Awards–and unintentionally sparking the outing of Rumi’s request to Mira and Zoey–this Celine is serene. Calm. Complacent. Composed.

Only the very slight twitch of her finger tapping lightly against the side of her tea cup gives any indication otherwise. 

Rumi decides to start with something familiar. “Thank you for the tea and the snacks,” she says politely. She cradles her cup in her palm and sips.

“Of course.” Celine’s eyes glance off Rumi’s face yet again, unable to linger more than a second or two. She casually asks, “How are things going? Are promotions for Comeback coming along well?”

“Mm,” Rumi hums, “pretty well. We’ve already finished a photo shoot of my new look and rolled it out to the public as promo material.” She watches Celine carefully.

Celine freezes subtly. Her hand trembles ever-so-slightly as she takes another sip. “...I see.” 

“You know, there’s been a surprisingly large positive outgrowth from the new material’s premiere. Bobby helped us spin the angle that my patterns–” Rumi notes Celine’s tiny wince “--are tattoos meant to cover up and spin off of old scars from a childhood accident. We chose not to elaborate, but we’re stealthily swaying the narrative towards a bad fall out of a tree.” Rumi idly traces the patterns on her left hand with her right. “The right ‘leaks’ work wonders, as do the scars I’ve picked up from demon fights over the years–they do look an awful lot like the work of branches, in a certain light.”

Rumi watches Celine carefully, notes her pursed lips and furrowed brows. 

Against her better judgment, Rumi continues. “A lot of fans have come forward with their own stories of various scars. It’s their way of showing support for my ‘drastic’ decision to tattoo my entire body.” Celine doesn’t look away from the window. “Obviously, I couldn’t have just gotten tattoos like this overnight, so Bobby’s helped us explain that away with having covered them up as I got them until they were all done. He’s been a godsend, and he doesn’t even really know the truth about my patterns.”

Celine exhales thinly through her nose.

“I…I don’t like them, but I do think I like being open with them,” Rumi pushes. “Like I can finally be me, for the first time.”

A taut whisper responds: “You should’ve covered them back up.”

Rumi stills. 

Silence blankets them, tense and heavy.

“Really?” Rumi mutters, setting her cup down. “That’s what you’re going with, even now? Would covering them all up make it easier for you to finally look at me?”

Celine flinches. She turns blazing eyes on Rumi, who swallows thickly. “They’re supposed to be gone,” Celine says. “Not–not flaunted for the whole world to see.”

“What else would you have me do?” Rumi argues. Her chest feels tight. “They’re not gone. We sealed the Honmoon and they’re still here.”

“Maybe if you’d sealed it properly–”

Rumi flings her hands up in the air. “There it is! I knew it!”

“Do not take that tone with me–” Celine starts.

“I knew you wouldn’t accept the new Honmoon, even after everything we did. I did.” 

Celine snaps, “And what did you do, Rumi? Destroy hundreds of years of work in one night?” 

Reeling as if she’d been slapped, Rumi glares. “I did what I was supposed to. I defeated Gwi-Ma and sealed the Honmoon. I don’t care if it’s not golden, it works!”

“For how long?” Celine bristles. “For a month? A year? We have no idea how strong this new Honmoon of yours actually is, we don’t know the damage it could cause.”

“Then we watch it!” argues Rumi, slapping a hand down on the table hard enough to cause the tea cups to rattle. “We monitor it, like we’ve already been doing for years!”

Celine clenches her fists in her lap and, Rumi notes, still doesn’t look at her for more than a few seconds. “But you shouldn’t have to,” she contends, “you wouldn’t have to, if you’d just made the Honmoon golden like you were supposed to!”

“I–”

Interrupting, Celine pushes, “I raised you better than that! I raised you to always do the right thing, to always do your duty!”

“I’ve done my duty,” Rumi growls, “more than you did yours.”

All of the breath in Celine’s body leaves her with a loud gasp. Her whole person seems to deflate, caving in on itself. 

The anger boiling inside Rumi instantly freezes over. She bites her lip and starts to reach for Celine’s hand.

This is Celine, for crying out loud. Celine, who’s done everything for her.

Everything except love her wholly, no exceptions

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Rumi mutters, finally grasping Celine’s hand limply in her own. Celine doesn’t fight it. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

Celine finally, finally looks at Rumi.

“You asked me to kill you,” she says, voice breaking. “I can’t–I couldn’t–Rumi, I could never.” Celine raises Rumi’s hand in hers, cradles it gently to her cheek. “How could you ask that of me–?”

A million thoughts swirl in Rumi’s mind.

How could she ask that of Celine?

Easily. She was only doing what she’d been taught to do, after all. Only thinking what she’d been taught to think. 

Rumi grew up knowing she was a mistake.

Celine is the one who taught her why.

Instead, though, Rumi meekly says, “I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Celine murmurs, pressing a light kiss to Rumi’s hand. Rumi notices that it’s placed deliberately between two pattern lines. “Please don’t ever ask that of me again.”

“I won’t,” Rumi promises.

She means it, she’s pretty sure.

She just also feels weirdly empty.

“Here,” Celine starts, “eat some more.” She removes her hand from Rumi’s and replaces it with another choco pie.

Absent-mindedly, Rumi begins to eat, watching Celine as she fiddles with refilling their tea cups before rocking back to rest her weight on her heels. To Rumi’s chagrin, Celine’s gaze is averted once more, apart from swift glances to check that she’s eating.

And just like that, the room is quiet once more.

It used to comfort Rumi, how fast Celine could forgive her and move on when she said something wrong.

Now, the silence is suffocating. It reaches demon claws around her throat and squeezes until Rumi chokes on every word bubbling to the surface. 

“Rumi.” Celine’s voice cuts the air like a Honmoon-powered blade. “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“...It’s okay.” This time, it’s Rumi’s turn to look away from Celine.

Celine sighs. “It shouldn’t be. I’ve…done a lot of things I shouldn’t have in raising you. I just–” When Rumi raises her head, she jolts when she meets Celine’s eyes. Celine is pointedly staring her down. She reaches a hand to caress Rumi’s cheeks, and Rumi can’t help but lean into it, half-lidded eyes trained on Celine.

“I wanted to heal you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, Rumi.”

Rumi nuzzles Celine’s hand even as her heart breaks. “But what if I don’t need to be healed?” she whispers. 

“Oh, Rumi,” murmurs Celine, tucking a strand of purple hair back into place in its braid. “Don’t give up. We can still find a way to fix this, I know we can.”

Rumi’s chest aches. 

She pulls away.

“Celine…” Rumi opens her eyes fully. “Celine, I can’t be fixed.”

Celine frowns. “Yes, you can. We just–we have to figure out another way, but I promise you, I won’t stop looking–”

In a small voice, Rumi asks, “What if I don’t need fixing?”

“That’s your demon side talking, Rumi, pay it no mind, we’ll get rid of it, I promise. Together. We’ll fix you.”

In an even smaller voice, Rumi asks, “What if I don’t want to be?”

Celine stills. “...What?” She blinks at Rumi.

“Celine, I–I’ve been thinking. A lot. And talking with Mira and Zoey, and they’re saying the same thing. Maybe it’s…okay that I’m–” she gestures at herself “-this.”

Vehemently shaking her head, Celine’s brow wrinkles. “Why would they–I taught them that–no, nevermind, it doesn’t matter. Rumi. You know better than anyone that demons are irredeemable monsters, but you still have hope, we can–”

“Was my dad a monster?”

The room chills. 

Celine pauses mid-sentence. Her jaw drops.

Rumi juts out her chin mulishly. “Was my dad a monster?” she repeats.

Stunned, Celine’s mouth opens and closes a handful of times before she can speak. When she does, though, all that comes out is a strangled, “What?”

“My dad,” presses Rumi. “Was he an ‘irredeemable monster’?”

“We’re not talking about your father,” Celine says harshly.

“Why not?” Rumi argues. 

“It’s not relevant.”

“It’s entirely relevant!” shouts Rumi. She flings an arm wide and gestures wildly. “Because you’ve never told me anything about him! I always just assumed! But now–now I don’t know anymore! Because part of me thinks maybe, maybe there’s a chance he wasn’t! Maybe he was just like Jinu–”

“Who?” 

Rumi’s tongue ties in knots. She gulps.

Narrowing her eyes, Celine’s voice becomes dangerously low. “Jinu, as in the demon that led the Saja Boys?”

A choking cough wracks Rumi’s throat. 

It’s all the answer Celine needs.

“You–” Celine’s breathing grows heavy. “Did you meet with him? Did you meet with a demon?”

Rumi fumbles to find words.

None come.

Celine starts to stand, towering over Rumi. “You met with a demon,” she says in disbelief. “Is he–is he why you’re okay with–with this–” she waves at Rumi’s patterns “–now? Did you–you didn’t–?” 

There’s a haunted familiarity in Celine’s expression.

“Don’t tell me you loved–”

“No!” Rumi shouts, finally finding her voice. “But I did trust him! I cared about him!”

Aghast, Celine chokes, “About a demon?”

“And,” Rumi continues, “he cared about me! He wasn’t an irredeemable monster, he gave up his life for me!”

Celine looks like she’s about to be sick.

It finally dawns on Rumi why.

Before Rumi can speak, Celine mumbles and clutches her head, falling back into a crouch, “No, no, not again, please, I won’t go through this again–”

“Celine–”

“Miyeong, what have you done–”

“Celine–”

“What have you asked me to do–”

“CELINE–”

“Why must I still be forced to choose–”

“CELINE!”  

Both Rumi and Celine gasp as the Honmoon ripples, pink waves rolling into the distance, gone as swift as they came.

Rumi can’t see herself, but she feels the claws on her fingertips, notes the way her vision blurs and doesn’t quite match the way it should. She takes a shuddering breath and ignores the changes.

“Celine,” Rumi repeats for the fifth time, voice soft. A fang pokes into her bottom lip as she attempts a reassuring smile, spreads both arms wide in a display of harmlessness. In a gentle, coaxing tone, Rumi breathes, “I’m not my mother.” 

Celine stares wide-eyed, gaze flicking up and down as she takes in the entirety of Rumi’s appearance. Rumi feels a flicker of hope bloom as she holds her breath.

Abruptly, Celine’s face turns to stone.

The fire of Rumi’s hope dies to ashes in her chest.

“No,” Celine says coldly, “you most certainly are not.”

---

“I think it’s time,” the prince whispered sultrily, “to find out what’s underneath all that armor.” His fingers glide across the breastplate’s buckle and–

There’s a knock on the window. 

Bobby yelps and flings his book at the windshield. It rebounds and hits him square in the face before falling back into his lap.

Moaning, he clutches his nose–god, he hopes it’s not broken–and plasters a smile across his face. “Heyyy, Rumi–” he starts, then catches sight of her.

His smile drops.

“...Rumi?” he asks tentatively.

Rumi blinks. Her eyes are trained on him, but she looks like she’s focused on something a thousand kilometers away. 

He didn’t hear her coming at all, which doesn’t surprise him all that much, because each of his girls can move with the poise of a cat when they want to, but it does surprise him that Rumi didn’t alert him out of courtesy like she normally does.

“I’m ready to go back,” she says stiffly.

Bobby blinks.

That was…it?

No greeting? No “Hi Bobbyyy”?

Bobby only realizes he’s been staring when Rumi breaks into a random smile. Her show smile. She’s also standing by the door to the backseat, not the front. “No shotgun on the way back? I promise I’ll let you pick the music.”

Rumi shakes her head. “I’m fine. Just a little tired. I’d rather sit in the back, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, sure thing.” Bobby unlocks the backseat and watches through the rearview mirror as Rumi slides in gracefully and fastens her seatbelt. “Um,” Bobby says, “give me a second to look up the directions back again, okay?”

Humming her acknowledgment, Rumi turns to look out the window with that faraway gaze in her eyes. 

Bobby whips out his phone and starts frantically typing.

Rumi's Angels

This fiction uses, and is about, custom styling. There's fallback in some places, but if you have work skins disabled you likely won't get much out of this.

The ride back is silent.

Bobby tries three unique conversation openers, two awful puns, and four separate HUNTR/X songs in an attempt to get Rumi to say or sing something. When all he gets back in response are disinterested hums or nothing at all, he gives up before they’re even halfway home.

When he parks the car, Rumi doesn’t talk.

When the security guard waves hello, Rumi doesn’t talk.

When he calls the elevator, Rumi doesn’t talk.

Bobby’s sweating through his shirt by the time the elevator dings to signal their arrival at the top floor. He inputs the entrance code to the penthouse and holds the door open for Rumi, who gives him a small “Thank you” as she enters.

As he shuts the door behind him, he hears Zoey and Mira greet the two of them enthusiastically. 

Very enthusiastically.

Bobby winces a bit at their lack of subtlety as they chorus in unison, “Hey Rumi! Hi Bobbyyyy!”

“Heyyyy girls,” Bobby drawls nervously, tugging his collar. He glances back and forth between Rumi and the rest of HUNTR/X, who are standing awkwardly in the kitchen. On the counter, there’s a massive pile of snacks, from ramyeon to kimbap to convenience store crab chips.

“Rumi!” Zoey calls excitedly. “We’re going to have a movie night, and because Mira and I couldn’t decide on one, you get to be the tie breaker! And we prepped with loads of snacks.” She gestures to the haul.

Mira’s voice is almost sickly sweet as she says, “And you can totally eat now, if you want, we don’t have to wait to start the movie.”

Bobby’s heart melts watching them. It’s a solid tactic, really. Food is always a reliable method of grabbing Rumi’s (or, really, any member of HUNTR/X’s) attention.

Zoey and Mira are looking at Rumi hopefully. Their grins are a little too wide and their stances are a little too leaned in to be natural, but the care oozing from their pores is absolutely real.

It’s a simple, but brilliant plan to cheer up Rumi, Bobby thinks. Flawless, really.

“I’m not hungry,” Rumi says quietly.

The room stills.

“W-what do you mean?” Zoey asks nervously, awkward smile stretching further.

Rumi glances at the pile of food in the kitchen for a brief second before her attention turns to the hallway that leads to their bedrooms. She starts to shuffle forward, shoulders drooping as if she’s utterly exhausted, but that can’t be right, because she’s had this whole day off, Bobby made sure of it.

“Rumi,” Mira calls. Her voice is quiet but firm. “Come eat with us and tell us about your day.” It’s not a request.

Pausing, Rumi turns to Mira. Her face is nearly expressionless, but there’s the barest glimpse of a silent plea shimmering in her eyes. “Mira,” she breathes, “I’ll talk later. I promise. But right now…” She chews her lip and slumps. “I’m just really tired.”

“Okay,” Zoey says, “well, let’s do a big cuddle pile! I’ll grab a bunch of my plushies and you’ll get your bear and–”

“I’d like to be alone.” Rumi’s tone is flat. It brooks no argument.

At Mira’s and Zoey’s frozen faces, the edges around Rumi’s eyes soften. “Please,” she whispers.

Swallowing, Mira stares. “Okay,” she agrees.

Zoey nods slowly as well.

Rumi blinks, then beelines for her bedroom.

As she enters her bedroom, Bobby catches a quick glimpse of her pulling her hood up.

With loud, shaky breaths, Zoey and Mira both collapse into nearby counter chairs, their faces stricken.

“Bobby,” Zoey asks, voice thick, "what happened?”

Mira runs her palm down her face and groans. “What did Celine say?”

Looking back and forth between the two of them, he brushes the tears prickling at the edges of his vision and says in quiet defeat, “I wish I knew.”

---

Rumi stops briefly at one of her closets to grab and slip on a mask and pair of gloves, then shoves the rest of her braid into her hood and pulls the drawstrings tight around her face. She glances in the mirror, cringes as she still sees a couple of patterns poking out, and pulls the hood down farther.

She crawls onto the bed and curls up, pressing her knees to her chest.

The rest of the conversation with Celine replays in her mind, looping over and over again.

---

“I’m not my mother.” 

“No,” Celine says coldly, “you most certainly are not.”

Rumi breathes in harshly through her nose, stricken. She curls hands into fists, ignoring where the claws of one dig into her palms. The sting is grounding.

She sees Celine’s gaze flicking across her pulsing patterns, her clawed hand, her eye that she knows must be glowing bright and golden. “What do you see,” Rumi asks before she can think better of it, “when you look at me?”

Celine flinches. 

“Do you see my mother? The beautiful, unstoppable Sunlight Sister? The one stupid enough to fall in love with a demon?”

Celine’s face contorts.

“Do you see the demon? The demon whose name I don’t even know? The demon who was so irredeemable that he stole a hunter’s heart?”

Rumi’s ragged breaths are quiet compared to the loud, shaky ones Celine is fighting to draw in and out of her lungs. 

“What do you see, Celine?” Rumi asks harshly. “Because I know it’s never been me.”

“That’s not true!” Celine refutes with a gasp. She stands up so harshly she knocks over what remains of her omija-cha. The tea spills onto the table and wood below, an unsettling scarlet stain blooming across the surfaces. 

Neither of them move to clean it up.

“That’s not true,” Celine repeats. “I do see you.”

“Do you?” Rumi growls. “Do you really?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then if you could see all of me, why couldn’t you love me?”

“Rumi,” Celine pleads, “we went over this that night, don’t you remember?”

Gasping affrontedly, Rumi clutches a hand to her chest. “Do I–do you remember? Do you remember, just moments after I begged you to kill me that, that I begged for an answer on why you couldn’t love all of me?”

Celine babbles, “I do, I do remember, I remember telling you that I loved you, because I do, Rumi, I do!”

“NO!” Rumi roars, clutching her head. “You told me to hide!”

“Rumi–”

“Why couldn’t you love all of me?!”

“I wanted to!” Celine shouts. There are tears staining her cheeks, smearing her pristine makeup. “I wanted to love all of you, I-I tried so hard to! But I didn’t know what you would even grow up to be, if I’d wake up one day and discover you’d-you’d taken a human’s soul, devoured it, and then I’d have to-I’d have to–” 

Rumi’s chest empties like she’s been punched in the gut. “You know I’d never do that,” she whispers, hurt, “you know that, Celine. Haven’t I-haven’t I always been good, haven’t I always done everything you asked of me? How-how could you not know that?”

“I couldn’t know anything,” Celine cries, “because you were unprecedented! I’d never heard of a child being born to a demon and a human before, let alone knew how to raise one!”

“But you knew me!” argues Rumi, fighting back choked laughter. “You did raise me! How could you not know how hard I tried to make sure I did everything right? Why couldn't I do anything right?”

“Because everything about your existence is wrong.”

Rumi recoils, stumbling backwards and snaking her arms around her stomach as if she’s been pierced by a blade. She stares in horror at Celine.

Celine gapes back at her, wide-eyed and stricken.

“...I know that.” The words are distant in Rumi’s ears as she speaks them. “You’ve taught me that. Every day of my life.”

There’s some kind of realization dawning on Celine’s face.

Rumi doesn’t care.

When Celine tries to say something, Rumi cuts her off. “I’m a demon,” she states quietly. “I’m wrong.”

“Rumi, wait–”

“I’m a mistake,” Rumi snarls. Her shoulders shake as a sardonic laugh bubbles out of her throat. Even as bitterness clogs her veins, she’s surprised to feel her demon features fading. She glances impassively past Celine, at the puddle of red still slowly spreading on the floor. 

“It’s a shame,” murmurs Rumi, “that I’m a mistake we were both too cowardly to erase.”

She starts to walk out.

Behind her, she hears Celine scrambling to follow, hears the pleas and cries even though the blood pulsing in her ears blocks any actual words from registering.

Rumi pauses without looking behind her.

“Don’t follow me,” she says flatly.

As an afterthought, because this is Celine’s home, after all, Rumi courteously adds, “Please.”

She leaves without turning around.

Celine doesn’t follow.

---

In bed, Rumi takes a shuddering breath.

The hallway light outside betrays Mira’s and Zoey’s shadows lurking just past her bedroom door.

Rumi curls into a ball and closes her eyes.

Chapter Text

There's something fundamentally unfair about Rumi's existence.

Mira can’t quite put her finger on the exact reason, though.

Is it unfair because of how effortlessly her voice jumps octaves every time she sings? How seamlessly she flows from one dance to the next? How she always has a helpful suggestion for the next pose when Mira’s choreographied out, or the next lyric when Zoey’s stuck in her writing? How she summons her Honmoon weapon like it’s no big deal or how she dodges so instinctually that Mira and Zoey have still not landed a hit on her in training? How she’s so stupidly attractive she’s practically everyone’s type?

No, Mira thinks, maybe it has to do with how Celine treats her compared to Mira and Zoey.

Bottle of water in hand, Mira’s relaxing on a bench during a quick fifteen minute break, panting and dabbing her face with a neck towel as she watches Rumi out of the corner of her eye continue running through the choreography for their debut. (Another thing that’s unfair is that, even hours into practice with the summer sun beating hot down on all of them, while Mira and Zoey are drenched in sweat, Rumi looks unphased apart from like, two singular strands of hair out of place. Mira wonders if she even needs to breathe, if she just pretends to be out of breath in some kind of weird commiseration.)

Running a palm down her face, Mira groans quietly. God, it’s so stupid, she’s not even wearing a tank top like the other two, how does she look so put-together?

“Mm, I think she’s secretly a vampire,” Zoey theorizes next to her.

Mira lets out a bark of laughter. “Excuse me, what?”

“Rumi,” Zoey explains, nodding her head seriously. “You were thinking the same thing I was, I could totally see it on your face.”

“...Wouldn’t she have, like, burst into flames by now?”

“No no no, not those vampires! One of the sexy sparkling ones!” The wooden wall that makes up the border of the training ground thumps as Zoey crashes into it with a lean, beaming at a baffled Mira.

“What.”

Zoey rolls her eyes. “You know, from that one movie series?” she clarifies in a way that doesn’t actually clarify anything at all.

Mira blinks.

Staring, Zoey’s brow wrinkles. “The one with the werewolves? And the crazy ship wars? Which were silly, by the way, the main girl has two hands and–” she takes in Mira’s face “–you for real don’t know this? Come on, Mira, it was like, everywhere!”

“Maybe in America,” Mira snorts. “I watched shit like Whispering Corridors.”

“...Does that have vampires in it?”

“No.”

“Are the main characters cute?”

“It’s not a romance, Zoey.”

“Oh, that’s boring then.” Zoey throws herself onto the bench next to Mira and heaves a sigh entirely too world-weary for a seventeen-year-old K-pop trainee (although maybe a little bit justified now with the whole demon hunter thing). “So that’s a no on Rumi?”

Mira chokes on her water. A bit dribbles out before she can catch it as she raises an eyebrow at a wickedly grinning Zoey. “It’s a no,” Mira says.

“She does sparkle a lot though, I’m just saying.” Biting her lip, Zoey bounces her foot. “Okay, um, werewolf doesn’t really make sense, although I suppose she does have a lot of hair…Mm, dragon?”

“I think,” Mira deadpans, “that she’s a demon.”

Zoey gasps loudly and whacks Mira on the shoulder. “That’s not nice, Mira,” she admonishes, “and doesn’t make any sense because Rumi’s like, the nicest person ever.”

“But she’s too nice, right? She’s too perfect,” Mira presses. In the center of the room, Rumi’s stopped practicing her dancing. Now, she and Celine are sparring with wooden staffs, twirling in a choreography so intricate that Mira’s eyes can barely follow each step.

“I feel like that’s a good argument for why she’s not a demon,” Zoey points out. “But she is freakishly good at everything. I guess it’s because she’s been in the industry so long!”

Mira hums. “Maybe.” Rumi ducks under a swing from Celine and pivots gracefully to twist around behind her, swiping at her ankles and narrowly missing when Celine whips her feet out of the way. 

Both Rumi and Celine are concentrating fiercely, Mira can see it from here. Hell, Rumi’s finally appearing a little tired, sweat forming on her brow. She quickly wicks it off on her shoulder sleeve and bears down on Celine, gaze intent and focused. 

Celine is just as focused, every muscle in her body tense as she matches each of Rumi’s moves with a corresponding one of her own.

They both look so serious.

And yet…

If Mira looks closely enough, if she’s reading them accurately enough (she is), she could almost swear they’re having fun. There are crinkles around Celine’s eyes every time she has to parry abruptly, and the corner of Rumi’s mouth twitches, like she’s desperately fighting down a smirk.

It’s unfair. That Rumi gets a parent who loves her this much.

Sue Mira for being jealous.

“As boring of an answer as it is, I kinda think Rumi’s just that good because of Celine,” Zoey reasons. 

On this, Mira agrees. She fiddles with her water bottle. “It is boring. But also probably right.”

“Like, do we really even know how long Rumi’s been training for?” continues Zoey. “Do you think Celine, like, looked at baby Rumi and went–” she drops her voice comically low “‘–from now on, you are a hunter. Learn to use this sword well, but not at the same time as potty training–’”

Mira swats her with her towel as Zoey cackles. 

The clank of wooden staffs continues to echo across the training grounds.

“It makes you kinda jealous, huh,” Zoey muses unexpectedly.

Whipping her neck to the side, Mira stares wide-eyed at Zoey, who shrugs sheepishly. “I mean. Their whole dynamic, right? Like, Rumi started off life on the real short end of the stick, if you think about it.” 

Mira winces. She does think about that, sometimes, wonders about how Rumi feels never having known her parents. While Mira certainly wouldn’t miss hers, she wonders if Rumi does.

It’s hard to tell, though. Rumi never talks about them, and Mira doesn’t feel it’s her place to ask.

Continuing, Zoey says, “But then, she was adopted immediately by like, basically an aunt? Depends on how you want to view the Sunlight Sisters’ relationship, because I actually do wonder about some of the rumors on them, the shippers back in the day had some wild theories and–”

“Zoey.”

“–right, anyway, Rumi gets adopted by this retired mega famous popstar who was also apparently a demon hunter, and then she gets like, crazy training from birth to be basically the most badass person to ever exist. And, Celine let her dye her hair in like, elementary school, do you have any idea how badly I wanted to dye my hair green at that age–”

“Zoey,” Mira cuts her off, suppressing a few snickers, “I get it. Also, green for turtles?”

“...Um, noooo?” Zoey answers unconvincingly. Under Mira’s unrelenting stare, she wilts. “...technically it was for Ducky from The Land Before the Time. Who’s a dinosaur. Whose face looks a little bit like a turtle, okay, I guess, but I was also six.”

Chortling, Mira ignores Zoey jabbing an elbow into her ribs and adds, smirking, “Yeah, that’s on-brand. But anyway, I do see your point.” In the background, Rumi just barely dodges a swipe to her ribs from Celine’s staff. “Literally being raised from birth to have this insane skillset would probably make you pretty perfect at said skillset.”

Mira takes a swig of water while Zoey muses, “It does make her seem pretty untouchable, doesn’t it?”

Mira chokes. “Wha–what do you mean?”

Zoey rolls her eyes. “That’s why you were staring, right? Trying to figure her out?”

“I wasn’t–”

Zoey hands Mira her towel to wipe up the water trickling down her chin. Mira takes it absentmindedly, forgetting she has one of her own. “It’s okay to admit it. I’ve been doing the same thing.”

“There’s nothing to figure out,” Mira argues weakly.

Zoey gives her a look. “Mira. We’ve known Rumi for a year now, and the only things we know about her are that she’s badass and nice. She’s got, like, crazy walls up, it’s totally not weird to wonder why.” Glancing at the two women still sparring, Zoey adds, “It’s also not weird to be jealous.”

Mira’s jaw drops.

Ignoring her, Zoey says, “I’m pretty jealous! She’s grown up learning from the absolute best to be the absolute best, and she’s always known exactly what she’s going to do in life and where she belongs. Meanwhile, I still feel like a fake when I tell someone I’m Korean or American, because saying I’m both never feels like a legit answer.” She traces the toe of her shoe in the dirt. “I really can’t believe my audition worked, to be trained with the Celine of the Sunlight Sisters and the daughter of Ryu Miyeong, when honestly, I thought it was a total crapshoot, that all they’d need was to hear how I speak Korean before they booted me back out the door.”

Zoey smiles wanly, and Mira pulls her into a one-armed hug. “Okay fine,” Mira admits, “if you’re doing the whole honesty bit so will I.” She squeezes Zoey. “Yeah, alright, I’m jealous. Rumi’s just so, like, good at everything. I can’t help but think of how much my parents would’ve loved her for a daughter, instead of the one they got. And I’m jealous that Rumi gets to have a parent who does care.”

“Yeah.” Zoey leans into Mira. “I get that too, even if my parents are nothing like yours–who, by the way, I will kick the ass of if you give me permission to.”

To her own shock, Mira giggles. “Thanks, Zoey,” she laughs, “I’ll file that away for later. But I’m glad, though, that Rumi doesn’t have to worry about that shit. Speaking from experience, it’s super not fun.”

And Mira is glad.

She doesn’t really want to think about her parents anymore, so she thinks about Celine instead.

She thinks about how Celine always brings back a cup of ice to top off the girls’ waters any time she goes inside, how she warms-up with the girls and fixes their form for stretches, how even the second she spots a wince of pain from one of them, she halts the practice until the matter’s fixed.

She thinks about how Celine stays calm and composed, how she never raises her voice, a far cry from what Mira had grown used to at home. How Celine doesn’t toss out compliments but doesn’t withhold them either; Mira always feels like she’s earned Celine’s praise, how the words make her smile in a way she’s not used to but in a way she’d like to be.

Mira thinks of how she leaves training exhausted every day, but so, so satisfied, and how Zoey’s matching smiles echo the same feelings.

Rumi doesn’t ever react as obviously as the girls; as nice as she is, she’s still a little awkward, something Mira’s hoping to iron the kinks out of as time goes on. But she does smile at the end of practice, small and genuine. 

Whenever Celine compliments Rumi, though, Rumi fucking beams.

And it’s Rumi, just Rumi, who gets the softest smile back. Who always has her favorite snacks stocked in the kitchen, who always has her favorite tea brewing, who often gets her laundry folded before she can realize and protest. 

It’s unfair, isn’t it?

Then again, Celine has high expectations for Rumi, higher than she has for Mira and Zoey, and sometimes, Mira thinks she comes off a little too harsh, can see the small slump in Rumi’s shoulders when Celine corrects her. But then Mira thinks of all of those little extra things Celine does for Rumi, things Mira never got from her parents, small things that don’t draw much attention, that tell Mira just how much Celine loves her girl. 

Maybe it doesn’t bother Mira, that Rumi gets treated differently than her and Zoey. It makes her envious, but it doesn’t bother her. Maybe it’s not unfair.

After all, it only makes sense for a mother and her daughter.

The continued clack of wooden staffs draws Mira’s gaze, and she startles as she witnesses Rumi dive under a swing almost too fast too seem human (“like a vampire” echoes a persistently annoying inner voice that sounds a lot like Zoey) and springs upwards with a burst of momentum, her staff twisting Celine’s and yanking it roughly from her hands.

With a few soft thuds in the dirt, the staff rolls to a halt as Rumi takes the one in her hands and whips it to point right under Celine’s chin, resting on her neck. Her grin is wild and untamed, self-satisfied in a way she so rarely shows.

When Celine flinches, the smile drops instantly.

“Oh my god, Celine, I’m so sorry, are you okay, I–” Rumi’s scrambling, her own staff falling to the ground as she frantically checks Celine over.

Celine halts her. “Rumi, I’m fine,” she says with a soft smile.

Mira blinks.

There’s something in Celine’s eyes she can’t place.

Something about Celine’s smile seems strained as she pats Rumi on the head and tells her how well she did. 

Rumi still glows at the praise, but it feels oddly muted.

Just like how the way Celine caresses Rumi’s braid feels oddly stiff.

A wariness, like a zookeeper with a tiger cub.

She says something else; it’s a little hard to hear at this distance, but Mira’s positive it’s Celine telling Rumi how proud she is. Based on how Rumi perks right back up, Mira’s pretty sure she’s correct.

Then, Rumi swings her attention on the benches, and Mira and Zoey gulp.

“Thirty seconds!” Rumi calls, one hand on her hip while she mimes lifting the other one up to stare at the time of an invisible watch, tapping her foot impatiently.

Celine says loudly, “I’ll prepare some kimbap for your next break, you girls have been working exceptionally hard today.”

Zoey and Rumi squeal with excitement.

Mira beams and rushes to her feet, the previously witnessed interaction forgotten.

---

Zoey looks like she wants to kill Celine.

Mira looks like she actually might.

Bobby subtly stands from the couch and shifts in front of the door to the elevator.  It’s not that he’s not always one hundred percent supportive of his girls, but that is a PR crisis he’d really rather never have to deal with.

(He does know how to, though. He’s looked it up because honestly, Mira sometimes makes him nervous.)

“Still not coming out?” Bobby asks quietly, putting his book back in his bag and pulling out his car keys to fidget with as he talks. 

At this point, it’s late afternoon, a good couple of hours or so since he officially dropped Rumi off from Celine’s place. He really probably shouldn’t be hanging around, but Mira and Zoey had looked so crestfallen as they watched Rumi retreat to her bedroom that he didn’t have the heart to leave just yet, not until he was confident that they’d be okay without him.

He’d watched them creep quietly to sit outside Rumi’s door, then settled himself on their couch to check on any work emails. Apart from a few venue reservation logistics for HUNTR/X’s next tour, there wasn’t much to do, and before long he was back to his book.

He’d glanced back, occasionally, to check on his girls, but neither one was talking. Zoey and Mira were silent, tightly gripping each other’s hands as they held a silent vigil outside their remaining member’s room.

Huh.

He wondered if they’d realized yet.

Bobby’s gaze lingered on the way Mira’s and Zoey’s fingers intertwined, on the way their mouths were set in solemn determination as they waited patiently for Rumi.

Huh.

Maybe they already had.

Either way, he wasn’t going to say a peep.

What kind of manager would he be, after all, if he couldn’t safeguard an industry secret here and there; mum’s the word!

It’s the soft rustling of clothes that brings him to ask if Rumi’s still not coming out and moves him towards the door.

Zoey and Mira flop into the counter chairs with a sigh.

“Nope,” Zoey pouts, folding in half to lay bonelessly on the counter, arms flopping over the edge on the other side. “Nothing.” Her right cheek is smushed against the countertop. “I hate being patient,” she whines petulantly.

Mira scowls, leaning back and crossing her arms. “Me too, Zoey. But she promised she’d talk later, so we need to at least give her a chance. She at least seems like she’s trying now.”

Bobby raises an eyebrow. “Is this a conversation you’ve all had before?” he asks, bemused.

Mira stills. “Uh, yeah, um. You know Rumi, always the workaholic, keeps a lot of things to herself, that one…” Her laugh is painfully awkward.

Lifting her head, Zoey props her chin on the counter and giggles nervously. “Yeah, totally, what Mira said! We had, like, an intervention with her, about not hiding wheeen, uh, she’s working, yeah, working so hard and needs to take a break, yes, that’s it!”

“Does this have anything to do with that ‘talk’ you said you needed to have with me after the Idol Awards?” Bobby frowns.

Groaning, Mira admits, “Yes. But now is for real not the time.”

“No, no, I got that!” Bobby flaps his hands in agreement. “Is there anything you can tell me, though? Like, maybe about Rumi and Celine?”

Mira and Zoey share a look.

“It’s…” Mira starts.

“...complicated,” Zoey finishes.

“Mhm, yeah, that’s the line Rumi uses too. But is there anything else you can tell me?” Bobby presses.

Zoey sighs loudly and throws her hands in the air before somehow flopping over the counter even more than she already was. “Not! A lot!” she cries. “Honestly, we don’t even really know! We just…” She presses her face directly into the countertop so that the next words she speaks are muffled. Bobby steps closer and strains to pick them up. “We found out some…stuff…about their relationship recently, and it’s…”

Picking up where Zoey trails off, Mira pinches the bridge of her nose and says, “It’s bad, Bobby. Rumi’s honestly been bad for a while, was hiding some…things, and now, we know that Celine’s a big part of why.”

Bobby swallows. “When you say Rumi’s been bad, what does that mean, exactly? Like, today weird-bad, or worse?”

Mira stares at him.

Unnerved, Bobby pleads, “Be honest with me. Scale of 1 to 10. We’ll put today at a 7.”

“Ten,” Mira whispers.

“One hundred,” Zoey says at the same time except harder to hear through the countertop.

Before he can stop himself, Bobby asks in growing horror, “Exactly what kind of bad are we talking about here?”

“Bad,” Mira emphasizes. There’s a haunted look in her eyes.

A sniffle comes from the countertop. “Bobby,” Zoey cries quietly, “she’s thought about–” She chokes and shoots upright, coughing and sputtering. 

Bobby’s eyes widen. He looks at Mira’s averted gaze, at Zoey’s red nose, at the shared hallowed look in their eyes.

His unflappable girls. 

Only one thing comes to mind.

It sends him reeling.

No. That can’t be right. Not one of his girls.

“Girls,” he forces out, “I'm not particularly prone to violence, but can you promise you won't fire me if I accidentally land my fist on Celine's face?”

This gets a startled laugh out of them both.

“We'd never fire you,” Zoey insists wetly.

Mira smiles despite herself. “Also you'd literally never do that, but it’s sweet to offer,” she teases.

A little disgruntled, Bobby mutters, “I’m really tempted though.”

A tiny click from the hallway grinds the conversation to a screeching halt.

Very quietly, a small voice says, “I’m ready to talk now.”

Mira and Zoey leap to their feet. They glance at Bobby, who waves his hand at them. “Go,” he commands softly, “go. I’ll talk to you girls later. Keep me posted.”

“Thanks Bobbyyy,” they chorus, then bolt to the bedroom hallway.

Bobby double-checks that he has all of his things in his bag before he slings it over his shoulder and walks into the elevator.

His phone dings.

He pulls it out to check the messages.

The elevator doors close as he frowns.

---

There’s something fundamentally unfair about Rumi’s existence.

She’s known exactly why for as long as she can remember.

That doesn’t make Celine voicing it hurt any less.

Because everything about your existence is wrong.

Rumi closes her eyes and breathes shakily, summoning her courage to slowly unfurl and slide off her bed. Every step she takes towards the door echoes a new reason why she’s wrong in her head.

She’s a demon.

Step.

She’s dangerous.

Step.

She’s a mistake.

Step.

She’s the reason her mother’s gone.

Step.

She’s the reason her father’s gone.

Step.

She’s the reason the Honmoon isn’t gold.

Step.

She hurts people.

Step.

She scares her friends.

Step.

She scares Celine.

Step.

She stole Celine’s family from her and took their place. 

A changeling child pretending to be normal. 

Rumi stands at the door.

Pretending to be human .

She twists the knob.

Pretending to be good .

She takes a deep breath through the mask she’d shoved on earlier.

Pretending to be right–

–and knowing that she’s not.

Rumi hesitates, then growls under her breath, “Talk to them.”

She opens the door. 

“I’m ready to talk now.”

The mad dash scrambling of her girls racing from the kitchen, nearly tripping over each other in haste, pulls a surprise giggle out of Rumi’s mouth. 

Everything about you is wrong.

Her smile drops. She swallows the bile in her throat and jerks her chin towards the bed. 

Zoey and Mira follow her instructions quickly, sitting on the bed, Zoey cross-legged and Mira with one leg hanging over the edge. There’s a distinctly Rumi-sized space left between the two of them that Zoey and Mira beckon Rumi towards.

Rumi sits in between them awkwardly. She aches to reach her hands out and clasp Mira’s and Zoey’s, but the gloves she’d haphazardly tossed on are thick and unwieldy, just like her tongue when she finally speaks.

“I don’t,” she starts, hard to hear through her mask, “know if I’m going to do this right.”

“There’s nothing to do right,” Mira says gently.

Rumi shudders. “What if I start talking and say the wrong thing?”

Laughing softly, Zoey bumps her shoulder to Rumi’s. “There’s no ‘wrong thing’ to say here either, Rumi. You just…talk.”

“And we listen,” Mira adds. “No rights or wrongs about it.”

Rumi takes a deep, aching breath and begins.

---

Bobby paces the lobby of the HUNTR/X tower. He runs a hand through his hair and bites his nails and stares at his phone screen.

Finally, he responds.

Celine

Bobby stares at the attached file.

And stares.

And stares.

… What?

Of all the things he expected from Celine, this was… not high on his list.

Heck, it wasn’t on his list at all!

It’s…a bad plan, Bobby thinks to himself. 

But in a weird way, he gets why she’s asking for it. 

In a weirder way, it’s obvious that this is Celine’s method of fixing whatever the heck went wrong today.

It’s just also a bad method, because if Bobby knows his girls (and he does), then Rumi is not going to like this. He gets why Celine thinks she would, is starting to see exactly where Rumi gets some of her more…concerning leadership tendencies, but also–

–he knows Rumi. And that girl’s heart is too dang big for this solution.

But also, Celine and Rumi are a lot alike, which means that Bobby knows he has a snowball’s chance in hell of convincing Celine not to do this.

He still tries, though.

Celine

Bobby lowers his phone, trembling a bit as he smiles and waves goodbye to the lobby security, heads to where he parked his car, sits in the driver’s seat, and drops his head into his hands.

Taking a deep breath, he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Okay, Celine,” he mutters, “one bad idea coming right up.”

He opens his email and gets to work.

---

Rumi recounts the day’s meeting with Celine to the best of her ability. Every time she thinks of skipping something, either Mira raises an eyebrow or Zoey gives her a light nudge, and Rumi is genuinely baffled as to how they seem to know.

Maybe it’s because, for one of the first times ever, Rumi’s making an active effort not to hide anything from her girls. (As Zoey’s pointed out before, Rumi’s a fairly bad liar the moment she drops her mask.)

When Rumi gets to the last bit of conversation she’d had with Celine, she shudders and pauses, unsure how to proceed until Zoey and Mira each take a gloved hand in their own. Part of Rumi wants to cry at the gesture, part of her wants to cry that she can’t feel them properly through the stupid gloves, and part of her wants to cry, finally, at what Celine said.

She doesn’t, though.

She hasn’t cried at all.

Not since she left, not even as she sat in her room for a couple of hours on her own, lost in her thoughts. She thinks she should have cried, should be crying now, but instead, she just feels…empty. Like there’s a hole in her chest, a piece that’s missing.

Rumi repeats what Celine said verbatim. The words were branded into her memory the instant she heard them.

“Because everything about your existence is wrong,” Rumi whispers, throat tight.

Mira’s grip on her hand squeezes. Like, really hard. It’s a little painful, actually.

Rumi glances at Mira to ask her to let go and freezes at the scowl on Mira’s face, at the slant of her eyebrows, at the flaring of her nostrils.

Oh. Mira’s pissed.

She glances to her right, to Zoey, and her eyes widen as she sees Zoey chewing the fingernail on her thumb through gritted teeth, her knee bouncing up and down almost as fast as the rhymes she spits on stage.

… Oh.

Zoey’s pissed.

Gulping, Rumi worries her bottom lip beneath her mask. Should she…mention what she told Celine after that? Given the way Zoey and Mira are silently seething, Rumi’s already cringing internally in anticipation of the scolding they’ll give her. Really, she doesn’t have to say anything, and–

She feels the press of their bodies flanking her and sighs.

Rumi promised.

“I…didn’t react well,” Rumi admits quietly, “and I…said some things.” She takes a deep breath through her nose. “I…told her I knew that, already, about me being wrong.” She ignores Mira and Zoey bristling. “That… she’d taught me that, um…everyday.”

Zoey asks, “Do you really feel that wa–” She stops when Rumi clears her throat.

Awkwardly, Rumi says, “There’s, ah, one more thing.” Zoey angles her head for Rumi to continue. Clearing her throat, Rumi mutters, “I maybe also said that it was a shame that I was a mistake she and I were too cowardly to erase.”

Zoey gasps loudly.

“Fuck! Rumi, what the hell!” Mira shouts, pulling her grip off of Rumi’s hand so she can fling both of hers above her head in a gesture of frustration to mirror her words. She whirls on Rumi, who cows under her glare. “Why the–why would you even– argh!” At a loss for words, Mira rakes her nails down her face and groans loudly. 

Zoey stares at Rumi. Rumi hunches her shoulders to make herself smaller, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. A little bewildered, Zoey asks, “Not touching on the last thing you said just yet, but did you seriously say that to Celine?”

Rumi cringes. “Yeah.”

“All of that?”

“...Yeah.”

“Did you mean all of that?”

“...Kinda, yeah.”

Mira groans loudly. “What the fuck, Rumi.”

“Sorr–”

Rumi’s jaw shuts with an audible click as she suddenly finds herself face to face with an angry Mira. Eyes blazing, Mira snaps, “Rumi, if you say sorry, I swear–”

“Okay, sorr–I won’t, I promise!”

Rumi can see Mira searching Rumi’s eyes until, moderately satisfied, she pulls away.

“Soooo…” Zoey scratches the back of her neck. “There’s a lot to unpack here, huh.”

Wincing, Rumi pulls her other hand from Zoey’s and wraps her arms around her middle. “Yeah, I guess,” she mumbles. 

“Whoa, hey, was that too much? You’ll tell me if I say or ask anything that’s too much, won’t you Rumi?” There’s a puppy dog quality to Zoey’s pleading that’s impossible for Rumi to ignore.

She acquiesces quietly.

“Okay, good, just wanted to check! So, we should probably start…somewhere, huh. Um…” Zoey looks to Mira for support.

Mira’s gnashing her teeth and glaring at the wall, hands curled into fists.

Rumi absentmindedly pulls the strings of her hood tighter. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Zoey frown at the motion, then give a strained smile. Rumi takes a second to really look at Zoey. She’s clearly putting on a chipper front to counterbalance Mira’s anger and Rumi’s reluctance; there’s a desperation in the width of her smile and the crease in her brow that betray her, along with the slight wetness in her eyes.

Part of Rumi wants to hide even further, knowing that she’s caused Zoey to cry yet again.

“Okay,” breathes Zoey, steeling herself, “okay. First question. It’s heavy, so again, please stop me if it’s too much.” She waits for Rumi to nod. “Okay. So. You said you told Celine that she taught you everyday that you were wrong.” She pauses until Rumi nods again. “And you…meant it?”

Rumi fiddles with the hems of her sleeves. “I…think so.”

“You’ve really felt that Celine’s taught you that?”

Blinking, Rumi fumbles, “I mean, not like, explicitly, but there were signs, when I was growing up. That she thought something about me was… wrong.” Zoey and Mira wait for her to continue. “It wasn’t ever in what she said though, as much as what she did. Like cover my patterns, even when it was just the two of us. She really couldn’t ever look at them,” Rumi says, “but I didn’t notice fully. Not until a couple weeks ago, when I…I couldn’t cover them up anymore. 

“Even today, she made my favorite tea, she brought out choco pies, and she still wouldn’t look at me.” She closes her eyes. “She still wants to fix me.” Rumi leans her head back and falls backwards onto the bed. “Is it wrong that I don’t want that anymore?” 

Mira’s tone is stern. “No, it’s not.”

“Rumi, your patterns are beautiful,” Zoey whispers.

Rumi laughs bitterly. “Now that I’m not sure I agree with, but they are part of me. They always have been. And I felt, for a moment, like I might finally be able to accept that.” She sighs, opens her eyes, and lets out a startled cry when she sees both Mira and Zoey leaning over and scrutinizing her, their faces so close she can feel their breaths tickling the tops of her cheeks, exposed above the mask.

“Uhhhh…” she eeks out, flushing under the intense attention.

“You,” Mira starts, poking Rumi between her eyes, “do not get to decide what we find beautiful.”

“Seconded!” chirps Zoey.

Grumbling, Rumi shoves the two of them away and sits up, grateful that her hood is hiding the tips of her ears that she just knows are turning red. “Look,” she says, “I appreciate it, but it’s fine, seriously. I’m okay with it.”

Mira and Zoey watch her. “Are you sure?” Zoey prods.

“Yes,” Rumi answers, exasperated. 

She is sure, she totally is, no matter how much her chest aches.

“What else did Celine do?” Mira grabs Rumi’s gloved left hand and starts to play with it, walking her fingers across Rumi’s palm and lightly tugging at the glove’s fingertips. “Growing up. What else?”

Rumi doesn’t move her hand away. “She was just…Celine. You two have seen it all, really.”

“I don’t know if we have,” Zoey admits. “Honestly, it always looked to me like she just, like, loved you a whole lot.” Rumi starts, surprised. “She always looked so proud of you.”

“…She did?” Rumi asks disbelievingly.

“Mira was jealous.”

“Wha—excuse me?” Mira’s jaw drops at being caught in the sudden crossfire. 

Rumi blinks as Zoey giggles and adds, “She told me so herself!”

“When?” Rumi looks back and forth between the two of them.

Choking, Mira sputters, “Years ago! When we were kids!”

“We only started training together when you were seventeen,” Zoey points out to Mira’s chagrin.

Before Mira can turn her anger from earlier on Zoey and throttle her the way her burning red face hints she might, Rumi feels a question bubble up her throat before she can stop it. “…Why?”

Mira pauses in the middle of the inhale she’d taken to start a tirade response to Zoey. “What?” She frowns.

Doubting herself, Rumi shuffles. “Um. Why were you jealous?”

“Rumi,” Mira says flatly, “you know about my parents.”

“No, I know, they hurt you, but they’re still, you know, your parents.”

Mira breathes sharply through her nose. “Rumi. My parents are the worst.”

Frowning, Rumi looks at her hands, sensing she said something wrong. “But there’s still a part of you that wants to see them, right?” she whispers uncertainly.

“No,” Mira states firmly, “I never want to see them again. I don’t want them in my life, not ever.” She runs her thumb over where Rumi’s knuckles should be under the glove and lets her touch linger where the end of the glove meets Rumi’s wrist. “Is there a part of you that still wants to see Celine?”

Rumi doesn’t answer.

“Hey, look at me.” Mira taps Rumi’s chin and guides her eyes. “That’s a good thing, believe it or not. Even if I personally don’t think she deserves it.”

Rumi averts her gaze. “Why?” she asks again. “Why do you think she doesn’t deserve it now? What changed you from being jealous of her relationship with me to condemning it?”

Furrowing her brow, Mira grimaces. “Because of how she’s made you feel. That you’re wrong, that you’re a mistake. You said she never said that, not expressly, right?”

Rumi nods slowly. 

“But she did,” Mira presses, “didn’t she? In front of all three of us.” 

Zoey’s brows raise in realization. “When she taught us about demons,” Zoey murmurs. “When she taught us how evil they were.” Rumi catches Zoey’s eyes flicking to meet hers. “Rumi,” she says seriously, “what did you think about? When Celine taught us that the mark of ultimate evil was purple patterns?”

Rumi shrinks into herself. 

She doesn’t feel the need to answer that. Zoey and Mira already know.

She drops her head into her hands and answers it anyway. “Me, mostly,” she admits, “but you already knew that.” Her voice drops low. “Sometimes, though, I thought about other demons, about how they were different, how I couldn’t be like them, because I was still half-human, could still fix myself.”

Voice dropping even lower, Rumi confesses, “And sometimes, I thought about my dad.” There’s that empty ache in her chest. “I wondered what his patterns looked like. I wondered if he was different too, maybe not in the same way I was, but different. I wondered what my mom thought when she saw his patterns. If she found them revolting or...if she found them beautiful.”

Rumi takes a shuddering breath. “I wondered if she'd think that of mine. When I was really little, I wondered if I could get Celine to think it instead.”

Zoey and Mira press closer. Mira starts actively pulling off Rumi’s left glove and Zoey starts on her right. Surprising herself, Rumi lets them.

She continues, “I knew Celine couldn’t, but a part of me still hoped that someday, she’d accept them. Accept me. A stupid part of me still hopes.”

The gloves slowly start to slide off her fingers.

“Celine said she was proud of me, but at some point, as I got older, I stopped believing her. She couldn’t be proud of me, not when some part of her stayed on guard, watched me, waited for me to turn into the demon I was all along. Not while I had these stupid patterns.”

Mira and Zoey continue gently tugging the gloves.

“Sometimes,” Rumi admits, voice empty, “I used to think she was scared of me. After talking with her today, I kind of think she was.”

The gloves are almost off. 

“She didn’t have to say I was a mistake. She didn’t have to say I was wrong. I already knew.” Rumi shakes her head. “I already knew, and yet I still tried every day to show her that I was good, tried every day to be better than the day before, to be perfect. I knew I wasn’t perfect, though, when I started to think about my mom and my dad, because I’d let myself hope, shamefully, that it didn’t matter if I had patterns, that maybe, if I wasn’t fixed, everything could still be okay.”

Rumi stares blankly at the exposed patterns twisting across her hands as Mira and Zoey finish pulling off the gloves and toss them to the side.

In a voice laced with shame, Rumi whispers, “And I thought, if my mom could find the beauty in my dad’s patterns, then maybe, all I actually had to do was find someone who saw the beauty in mine.”

Rumi’s breath catches as Zoey and Mira, in tandem, begin to trace Rumi’s patterns, across her knuckles, her fingertips, her palms, the backs of her hands. 

“You’re both sweet,” Rumi murmurs, “but you don’t have to pretend for my sake. I’m honestly okay.”

Mira cups Rumi’s cheek as Zoey slowly grasps her hood. Mira’s fingers catch at the edge of Rumi’s mask, then creep up to reach behind her ear, stretching the elastic over and off. “I used to think,” Mira says quietly, “that your existence was unfair.”

Rumi blinks, startled and a little offended. “Excuse me?” 

Laughter rumbles in Mira’s throat. “You were too weirdly good at everything.” Rumi’s cheeks heat in embarrassment. “Of course, as I got to know you better, I realized you were only really good at some things since I finally saw how bad you were at others.”

“Excuse me? ” Rumi squawks. “Like what?”

Zoey hums and starts to hold up a finger for each new example she lists. “Chess, talking with strangers outside of work settings, baking, holding your soju, literally any time Mira adds a shuffle into the choreo—“ 

Rumi can feel Zoey’s shit-eating grin beneath her palm as Rumi covers her mouth to shut her up. A sly look appears in Zoey’s eyes, and before Rumi catches it, Zoey licks Rumi’s hand.

Yanking her hand away as if it were on fire, Rumi stares in utter disbelief at Zoey, who shrugs. “If the method works, it works. And that particular one’s a kindergarten classic.”

Rumi can feel Mira shaking as she holds in her laughter.

Wiping her hand on her pants, Rumi turns. Before she can get back at Zoey, she tenses as Mira finally pulls the mask all the way off her face. The cool air against her skin feels nice, even if an accidental glance in the mirror across the room has Rumi biting her lip anxiously.

Mira swallows her laughter, expression mellowing into something tender and pained. As she tosses the mask away, she says, “I still think some things are unfair.”

Rumi tilts her head. 

“I think it’s unfair,” Mira says softly, “that you’ve grown up hiding a part of you.”

Rumi furrows her brow. “Mira,” Rumi admonishes, “it’s fine.”

“I think it’s unfair,” Zoey pipes up, “that you were taught to hate a part of you.” She pulls Rumi’s hood back slowly, lets her long purple braid fall out from where it had been bundled haphazardly.

Rumi’s chest aches. “Really, it’s fine.”

Mira guides Rumi’s arm upwards, until it’s pointed towards the ceiling. Zoey does the same on the opposite side.

Bemused, Rumi lets them.

“I think,” Mira murmurs, “that it’s unfair that you’ve ever thought there was something wrong with you.” She and Zoey work together to pull the hooded sweater up and off of Rumi.

Rumi’s too distracted to fight them.

“You don’t need to say all this,” Rumi whispers, “it’s okay.”

“I think it’s unfair,” Zoey says, “that you can’t see how beautiful you are, patterns and all.” She gently tilts Rumi’s chin until Rumi’s staring in the mirror across the room.

Rumi takes in the sight of herself. With the gloves, mask, and sweater discarded, she’s left in a simple T-shirt, braid cascading down her back, and her patterns exposed, faded iridiscent streaks that mark every limb with a symbol of her heritage, of what she is. (They're hideous...They're glowing.)

Mira wraps her arms around Rumi. “I think it’s unfair,” Mira says, “that you’re still trying to be strong for us.”

Zoey joins the hug on the other side, starting to sniffle. “I think it’s unfair that you haven’t trusted us enough yet to let go.”

Rumi stiffens.

She’s okay, though.

Really.

She’s okay.

Celine’s comments had stung, but that was just her opinion. It didn’t have to matter to Rumi, not if she didn’t let it.

It’s not important that Celine hurt her feelings.

It’s not important that she hurt Celine’s feelings back.

It doesn’t affect her.

It was just an argument.

Rumi’s fine.

Everything about your existence is wrong.

Rumi’s fine.

She’s okay.

She’s alright.

...That’s not right.

She’s not alright, because she’s not right.

She’s wrong.

She’s a mistake.

She’s a demon.

She’s dangerous.

She’s scared.

…She’s not okay.

Rumi unravels.

Throwing her arms around Zoey and Mira, she reels them in, pulls their foreheads together, and wails. 

Zoey and Mira collapse around her as she scrabbles at their backs with desperate hands bunching into their shirts and keens, loud and hard, the tears she’d been holding back all day releasing in a flood.

Rumi gasps and chokes as sobs wrench from her throat, her chest heaving as she desperately howls, “Why am I still not good enough?” She yanks Mira and Zoey in, relishing in the tightness of their grips as she lets out one wet, devastating cry after another. 

Mira and Zoey are crying with her as they clutch her between them.

That empty ache in her chest blooms, injecting a deluge of pent-up sorrow, years and years worth, into Rumi’s veins as she hiccups and trembles and weeps and finally lets go.

---

Through the open windows of an old hanok on the outskirts of Seoul, a kitchen lamp reveals Celine sitting cross-legged at her table, head bowed and shoulders shaking.

The light stays on until morning.

---

When Rumi calms at last and Mira and Zoey have properly reprimanded her for her parting comment to Celine–“You are henceforth forbidden to imply you’re a mistake who should be erased, on penalty of cuddles and also probably therapy”–Mira and Zoey ask her what she wants to do.

It’s clear from Rumi’s expression that she doesn’t know.

Mira carefully floats the idea of cutting contact.

Rumi winces and twiddles her thumbs in her lap. “I don’t know,” she admits quietly. “She’s my…she’s like my mom.” A beat, then she shakes her head. “No, I don’t think I want that. But I also don’t know how to be around her if she can’t accept me for me, patterns and all.”

Bracing herself, Rumi looks between Zoey and Mira and says, “I think I just need time.”

So she gets it.

Four days pass uneventfully, if not a little more subdued than normal.

Mira watches Rumi poke at her breakfast (jjigae again) and frowns. Zoey places a piece of her kimchi into Rumi’s bowl and gives an encouraging thumbs-up.

Rumi smiles, then goes back to lightly swirling the contents of her bowl, mind elsewhere.

Mira’s about to insist that Rumi eat when she feels her phone vibrate in her pocket. Pulling it out, she notes that, across the table, Zoey’s doing the same with her own.

Rumi takes advantage of Mira’s distraction, swiftly getting up and moving out of the kitchen to do some morning stretches as Mira casually flicks open the group chat with Bobby.

Rumi's Angels

Mira and Zoey tense, their eyes meeting across the table.

The intercom buzzes.

In slow motion, Mira and Zoey whip their heads to the door, standing up so fast they knock their chairs off balance.

Rumi, much closer to the door, pauses in the midst of her stretches and walks towards it.

Rumi's Angels

“Rumi, wait–” Mira and Zoey warn.

Rumi opens the door and finds herself face-to-face with Celine.

Chapter Text

Rumi stills, a deer in headlights as she stares at Celine.

Celine’s jaw is clenched tightly, but her wide eyes betray a mirrored surprise.

Before Rumi or Celine can speak a single word, Zoey and Mira have yanked Rumi back by her shoulders and swung in front of her, positioned like guard dogs with hackles raised.

Zoey is genuinely stunned.

Low and dangerous, Mira growls, “Celine. Get out.”

Celine straightens her spine. Her mouth thins. “No.” She looks past Mira and Zoey. “I have business to discuss.”

“Discuss with us,” Mira snarls, one foot planted forward and one arm swung back in a protective shield across Rumi.

Zoey takes up a similar stance as her gaze rakes over Celine.

Celine is dressed well, especially in a side-by-side comparison to the HUNTR/X trio’s mishmash of cartoon pajama shirts and pants. She’s sporting a black blazer, a white button-down, and a packet of papers stapled together neatly. There’s a pen in her pocket, and her hair is as gorgeous and flowy as ever, if not slightly grayer than Zoey last remembered. (It totally is grayer! Zoey's positive she's not imagining it.)

In a clipped voice, Celine says, “My business is with Rumi.”

Behind Zoey’s arm, she feels Rumi flinch.

Clearing her throat, Celine adds a smaller, “Let me speak with her, please.”

Zoey feels herself wavering for a split second, but Mira holds strong, pushing forward until she’s entirely too far into Celine’s personal space, leveraging her height to look imposingly down. “No,” Mira repeats. “No, you do not get to drop in here unannounced after the crap you pulled.” 

Celine glares. Zoey narrows her eyes. There’s something oddly shaky about Celine’s expression, like she’s anxious, or maybe just genuinely scared of Mira (which is very understandable, Zoey thinks).

“Mira. Move aside.” As almost an afterthought, Celine adds, “Please.”

Celine takes a step forward. There’s a quick, familiar tension in the air that starts with a shimmer and ends with the pop of Mira’s gok-do into existence. Zoey’s jaw drops as she sees Mira twist it and use the pole like a gate barring entry.

As shocked as Zoey and hiding it only mildly better, Celine stares at the gok-do. “You can’t be serious,” she mutters. 

“I am very serious.”

“Mira,” Celine starts, “I appreciate what you’re doing, truly, but I am not your enemy, and I’m not asking for much. Five minutes, that’s all.”

Mira leans in. “You don’t get to barge in here and ask for anything, not after–” A hand on her shoulder cuts her sentence off abruptly. Zoey watches Mira’s eyes flick in surprise at Rumi, who’s come up behind her without a sound.

“Mira,” Rumi says softly, a slight quaver in her voice the only betrayal of Rumi’s true emotions, “it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not–”

“This is Celine, not anybody else. And don’t you think I get to be the one to decide if I want to meet with her or not?” Her voice is gentle, comforting.

Mira stares at her, inhaling sharply. “Rumi, I–” She lets her head fall. “Okay.” The gok-do dissipates and Mira steps aside.

Zoey stays put, watching, waiting for whenever Rumi might need her, for whatever Rumi might need her for.

The instant Celine is face-to-face with Rumi properly, all sense of bravado seems to drain from her body. Her lips tighten and her fist clenches around the papers. “Rumi,” she breathes.

Rumi meets her gaze. “Celine.”

“I–” Celine starts, then stops. Zoey watches intently, curious and wary about this suddenly new version of Celine, one that, for the first time since Zoey’s known her, doesn’t seem to know what to say.

Celine clears her throat and straightens. Stiffly, she takes the papers in her hand and holds them out.

Rumi glances at them, then back to Celine, eyebrow raised in a silent question.

Looking closely, Zoey notes that Celine’s hand holding the papers is trembling, near imperceptibly. 

“Papers?” Rumi asks quietly, the smallest bit of disappointment slipping past her mask. “That’s what you came here for?”

Celine swallows. “Yes,” she says, “that’s what I came here for. They won’t take long, I promise.”

Rumi weighs the packet in her hands without looking down. Zoey tries to catch a glimpse of what’s on the papers but can’t track the words from her distance. “This doesn’t feel like it won’t take long,” Rumi muses. If Zoey weren’t Zoey, she’d be impressed at how calm Rumi is. But Zoey is Zoey, who knows Rumi, and she can see from the faint twitch of Rumi’s brow and the flicking movement of her eyes that she is very much not calm.

Beckoning with the hand not holding the papers, Rumi spins on her heel and heads for the kitchen counter. “I’m not doing whatever this is while standing in the doorway.”

All three follow Rumi quietly, Zoey and Mira sizing Celine up.

It feels weird, Zoey thinks, to be so distrustful of Celine, the Sunlight Sister Celine, her mentor. After holding Rumi through her breakdown, Zoey doesn’t really care.

Rumi slides into a counter chair. Mira and Zoey flank her. Celine chooses to stand on the other end of the counter, directly across from Rumi.

Raising an eyebrow, Rumi gestures at a seat, then shrugs when Celine shakes her head.

Zoey curls in, wanting to see the papers, but Rumi holds them up in front of her own face for a closer look.

So instead, Zoey watches Rumi read them.

It takes only seconds for a crease to appear in Rumi’s brow.

The room is silent.

Another wrinkle appears.

Rumi starts to frown.

Zoey glances at Celine when she shifts her weight, an uncertainty flitting across her expression.

Rumi turns to the next page.

A minute.

She flips to the next.

Another minute, then she grabs the edges of the paper and quickly flicks through the remaining pages, eyes scanning quickly. With a shaky exhale, she reads the last page and flips the packet shut.

Rumi looks like she’s going to be sick.

One glimpse at Rumi and Mira looks like she’s going to throttle Celine.

Celine, though, looks…surprised. Like she didn’t anticipate this reaction at all.

The silence hangs heavy.

It’s Celine who breaks it with a small cough and the handing over of the pen from her pocket. “All you need to do is sign and date,” she explains, wearing an oddly plastered smile. 

Rumi’s face, a little bit green, flits from the offered pen to the papers and back again. “I–” she croaks “--think I need a moment.” She stands abruptly and walks rapidly out of the kitchen, ducking around a hallway corner and out of sight.

Face as pink as her hair, Mira grinds out, “What. The fuck. Did you ask her to do now ?”

Celine is pale. “I-no, this wasn’t supposed to go like this, I thought–” She cows under Mira’s glare. Celine whispers, “This was supposed to fix things.”

Zoey retorts impulsively, “Well whatever it is, clearly your idea of fixing things with Rumi is no better than trying to fix Rumi. Unless that’s what this is about, too!”

Reeling, Celine steadies herself on the counter. “I’m not–” she whispers “-I’m not trying to fix her. I shouldn’t have–I shouldn’t have ever tried to–” She takes a breath. “That’s not what this is,” she reiterates. “This is–it’s supposed to help Rumi.”

“And what exactly is your idea of helping Rumi?” Mira snaps.

Celine starts, “It’s–"

Mira interrupts her. “Is it covering her up? Is it telling her to lie to her friends for years? Is it engraining the idea of wrongness so deeply in her head that she grows up thinking she’s a mistake?”

Celine reels from each question like they’re physical blows. “No, she’s not a mistake, I never–”

“It doesn’t matter, Celine,” Zoey cuts in coldly. “Whatever you actually said, it’s what Rumi understood. And what she understood is that apparently, she should’ve died by your hands a long time ago!” She’s shouting, her throat closing as her voice breaks. “She asked you to kill her, Celine!”

Fists in her hair, Celine shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. “I know, I know, it’s all my fault! That’s what these–” she gestures at the papers “–are for, this way Rumi will be happy, will be safe!”

In a flash, Mira snatches the papers. “What the fuck even are these-" she starts to snarl before the words die in her throat. She quickly thumbs through the pages, glancing back and forth between Celine and the papers in disbelief.

Mira lets out a harsh bark of laughter. “Have you lost your fucking mind?!” she exclaims, tossing the papers haphazardly on the counter. Zoey reaches for them next, but her attention’s still ensnared in the storm brewing in front of her.

Celine bristles, caught in some weird cross between fury and distress. “No,” she snaps, “because these- ” she slaps her hand down on the papers and Zoey freezes mid-grab “-are me, for once, coming up with an actual solution. This will protect Rumi.”

“Protect?!” Mira shoves the papers out from Celine’’s hand and off the counter. Zoey hastily grabs them as they fall. “Well congrats, they’re already doing a bang-up job on protecting Rumi,” applauds Mira sarcastically. “Well-done. She’s totally not hurt now.”

Zoey holds the documents in front of her face to scan them.

“You–” Celine takes a deep breath, “you’re not understanding. This will ensure she doesn’t get hurt again. It will protect her.”

Full of venom, Mira bites, “Protect her from what?”

Zoey stares at the papers.

Zoey blinks, the wording taking a second to register in her distracted brain. A quick flip through the other pages shows her walls of legal contracts and documentation.

Celine wants to…transfer all ownership of the company to Rumi?

Why?

She looks up to see Mira and Celine facing off. 

Something in Celine’s expression, in the way her lips start to twist and nostrils flare, in the way her hands twist into her hair before she yanks them out and folds them in front of herself, tells Zoey that Celine’s composure’s about to fracture.

With one sentence, it does. Celine, trembling, answers Mira’s question: “It’s to protect her from me.”

“You–I’m sorry, what?” Mira looks as baffled as Zoey feels.

Glancing down in a way that appears far less like a dignified mentor and far more like a child bracing for a scolding, Celine hoarsely whispers, “Both of you are right to be mad. To keep me away from her. I hurt her.” 

Zoey and Mira stare.

“Everything I’ve done, everything that was meant to protect her, has hurt her instead. How Rumi feels is my fault. I’ve been too blind to see it, too much of an old fool, but all of this is my fault.” Zoey has never seen Celine cry before now; it unsettles her. 

In a shaky voice, ignoring the tears spilling down her cheeks, Celine says, “It’s my fault that Miyeong died and it’s my fault that her daughter almost did too.” Dazed, she raises her head to Zoey and Mira and murmurs, horrified, “She asked me to kill her.” Zoey can’t help but flinch, as if she hadn’t mentioned it herself earlier.

Celine stares at her balefully and repeats in a broken voice, “She asked me to kill her. I pushed her to that. My teachings pushed her to that. This,” she points at the papers in Zoey’s hands, “cannot undo what’s already been done, but it can protect her, moving forward. It means that Rumi will never need to talk to me again. It means that, at the very least, I can protect her from me.”

Eyes blazing, Celine sets her mouth in a hard, stubborn line. “She will be safe. I can’t hurt her anymore if she has no reason to see me.” Celine swallows. “These papers are a parting gift. My way of letting Rumi feel unequivocally free.”

Celine glances at the papers, then to Zoey and Mira. “I can pick them up later, if that’s easier.” There’s a lacing of poorly disguised hurt in her voice. “Or I can have Bobby get them. She doesn’t have to see me anymore.” With a shuddering breath, Celine declares, “I will remove myself from her life immediately and completely.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

Rumi’s voice locks everyone in the room into an instant stillness. Only their eyes track her movement as she pads around the countertop and plucks the papers from Zoey’s hands. Rumi holds the papers for a moment, staring, before walking to a recycling bin and casually letting them fall.

In a tone that brooks no argument, Rumi requests, “Mira. Zoey. I’d like to speak to Celine alone for a bit.” 

Zoey’s protest dies on her lips before she can say a word at Rumi’s fierce glare. She sees Mira clam up as well.

Unable to help herself, Zoey does inform, “We’ll be just down the hall, one call away.”

Rumi angles her head in acknowledgment.

As Zoey and Mira reluctantly leave, Rumi turns to Celine.

—

In the entirety of Rumi’s life, from the moment she first learned to speak all the way up until the events of the Idol Awards, Rumi has confronted Celine about one thing:

Telling Mira and Zoey the truth.

The actual argument was finished in seconds. Celine said no, and when Rumi pushed back, said she thought the girls would understand, Celine had given her the barest frown and the slightest wrinkle in her brow as she reiterated her answer; to Rumi, it had been as loud as a clap of thunder. She’d backed off immediately, and any time she welled up the courage to ask again, Celine didn’t even bother giving her full attention as she repeated her unchanging answer.

This time, Rumi won't back down so easily.

The silence between them hangs so thickly, Rumi’s not confident her saingeom could cut through it.

The calm and composed Celine, who answered firmly and resolutely, was a far cry from the Celine in front of Rumi now. This Celine is stricken, her mouth slightly ajar, her hair slightly tousled, her cheeks damp, her eyes blown open wide.

For being the woman who taught Rumi “your faults and fears must never be seen”, her current appearance is a shock to Rumi’s system. Rumi wonders if she’d be less or more surprised if Celine had waltzed up in Zoey’s branded ramyeon’s striped American hat.

Rumi’s jaw is clenched as she stands before Celine and decides exactly where to start.

Rumi had heard everything. She’d crept just around the corner and waited, pressed against the wall. Eavesdropping was relatively easy when no one involved was trying to be quiet, and as much as some of what she heard caused her to wince, she listened. She listened until Celine aired her decision and Rumi couldn’t just listen anymore. 

The morning sun illuminates the penthouse joint living room and open kitchen area. For the first time, Rumi thinks it feels a little too big. 

The couch is behind Celine, and the counter is behind Rumi; she chooses to stay standing, awkwardly apart from this unfamiliar, openly exhausted Celine.

Rumi takes a breath, banishing the words Celine had told her days ago that have haunted her every time she sees herself in the mirror, and exhales slowly, deeply, making sure that she stays calm, this time, at least to start.

“Celine,” Rumi begins, setting a clear expectation in an odd role reversal, “explain. From the top.” 

Celine’s gaze meets Rumi’s as she coughs lightly and quietly says, “Of course. Did you hear–?” At Rumi’s raised eyebrow, Celine shakes her head. “That doesn’t matter, you’re right. From the top.” She takes a deep, meditative breath.

Rumi keeps her brow raised, a little puzzled at the way Celine’s eye contact hasn’t broken.

“I came to you today with contracts on transferring full ownership of Sunlight Entertainment and its properties from my name to yours. All assets, all rights, everything.” Celine watches for any tell-tale twitch on Rumi’s face to betray her thoughts; Rumi’s mask doesn’t slip. She’s learned from one of the best, after all, and only two people have truly figured out how to take it off. “I promise,” Celine’s voice is low, “that it is everything. The contracts are fully transparent, and if there’s even a single thing wrong, it will be corrected in short order, I’ll make sure of it.”

Rumi’s starting to get a little unnerved by Celine’s staring, but she ignores it to ask calmly, “Why?” It’s taking every ounce of vocal control she has to make sure her voice doesn’t shake. Before Celine can say anything, Rumi adds, “Even if you said it earlier. Say it again, to me. What is the purpose of this transfer?”

Celine doesn’t move; Rumi feels like Celine’s eyes are boring holes in her skull. “It’s the best solution to fix things.” Celine’s chest expands and contracts in uneven breaths. “I came to you not long ago, asking you to talk about the Idol Awards. When we finally did, instead of talking, I reprimanded you.” Her jaw clenches. “Even after what you asked me to do, I let my emotions from the past cloud my words.”

It’s strange, how elegant Celine looks even now, even as she stifles tears and swallows sobs. “You have every right never to speak to me again,” Celine whispers. “It was my fault that we lost Miyeong, and it was my fault that we almost lost you too. I swore to Miyeong. There is one common factor, and the only way I can ensure you’re safe is to remove it. Remove me.”

“Is that all this is?” Rumi bites back a bitter laugh. “Upholding your promise to my mom?”

Celine blanches. “No, no!” she cries. “That’s not–don’t you see? I’ve hurt you–even now, I’m hurting you. I’m–Rumi, I have to protect you, I have to. This is the only way, can’t you see it?” Rumi’s never seen Celine this emotional before, with tears cascading down her cheeks in a steady torrent. 

“Why do you always insist on one solution?” Rumi quarrels. “Why–I still don’t understand, Celine, what is this supposed to fix?”

“You.” A realization strikes Celine as soon as she says the singular word that lodges like a bullet between Rumi’s ears; Rumi flinches involuntarily. “Not for–not for your patterns, I–this is what I’m talking about, I’ve finally realized it. Rumi–” Celine's face crumples “–this is all my fault.”

Celine drops to her knees, eyes still never leaving Rumi’s face. Rumi looks down, startled. “Celine, what are you–”

Finally breaking her strange stare, Celine hinges forward at her waist, and presses her palms and forehead to the ground. Desperately, despairingly, Celine sobs, “I’m sorry.”

Rumi inhales sharply. Her knees wobble as if they’re about to give out like Celine’s. She steps back, stumbling slightly; her vision blurs, her patterns flash, her blood roars in her ears. Her mouth drops open as she sees a sight she’s never seen before:

Proud Celine, on her hands and knees in a keunjeol, a bow so formal that Rumi’s only ever seen it in movies and K-Dramas, is apologizing.

Rumi’s aghast.

“Celine. Get up,” she commands hoarsely.

“I’m sorry,” Celine echoes. “I’m sorry.”

Repeating herself, Rumi growls, “Get up, Celine.”

“I’m sorry.” She’s trembling as she whispers, “You’ll never have to see me again.”

Rumi recoils. “That’s–that’s not what I want, Celine! I never wanted that!”

Startled, Celine starts to lift her head, then presses it back to the floor. “Then please,” she begs, crying, “tell me what you do want. Anything.”

The dam holding back Rumi’s own tears threatens to collapse. “I want my mother.” Her voice cracks.

Flinching, Celine lets out a sob. “I know,” she whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, that’s–”

“I’m sorry.”

“Celine, you’re still not listening to me.”

“I’d give anything to bring her back.”

“No, you don’t get it–”

“I’m sorry.”

Rumi drops to a squat and wrenches Celine’s head up to look in Rumi’s eyes.

“Celine. I want my mother,” Rumi pleads.

Before Celine can say another word, Rumi lets the tears that have been threatening to fall go at last as she cries softly, “I want you.”

Celine’s eyes widen, and widen, and widen. Rumi finally lets herself break. She flings her arms around Celine and yanks her out of her bow and into her arms and cries.

Twitching, Celine’s arms hang stiffly at her sides for a few seconds, as long as it takes her to process what Rumi said. Then suddenly, Rumi feels a strong embrace squeezing her tightly with all the strength of a retired Hunter.

“I’m a fool,” Celine confesses, cradling the back of Rumi’s head. “I should never have hidden my faults and fears. If I hadn’t then you’d have known the truth.” Somehow pulling Rumi into the hug even further, Celine states, “You were never my greatest fear, Rumi. Losing you was.”

Rumi buries her face into Celine’s neck, not caring if she’s splotching her cheeks or soaking Celine’s hair. Her hands grip like claws into the back of Celine’s blazer.

“I was so scared,” Celine whispers, “every day. Your patterns scared me, but not because of what they were, not because of you.” She swallows thickly and pulls Rumi tighter. “I was petrified at the possibility that one day, I’d wake up and you wouldn’t be you anymore, you’d be a demon, and I’d be a Hunter and I’d have to perform my duty.” Her breath rattles in her throat. “And when you showed up that night, and you asked me to do just that, I couldn’t. Rumi, I couldn’t, I could never–I need you to know that deep down, I was so scared because I knew that, if I had to choose between my duty and my daughter, I–it wasn’t ever a choice at all.”

Hiccuping, Rumi whimpers, “I’m a mistake.” She feels Celine’s breath hitch. “That’s what I thought you thought, when you’d flinch or–or when you’d cover my patterns or when you–you told me not to tell Mira and Zoey, when I wanted to so badly. I was so convinced. I started believing it too. In a way, I still do.”

Celine starts to rock, clutching Rumi so tightly it’s as if she’s scared that Rumi will disappear the instant she lets go. “No, no, you’re not a mistake, you–Rumi, I failed you, I’m the one who’s made mistake after mistake, not you, never you–” she strokes Rumi’s braid “–I’m sorry I made you feel that way, I’m sorry, but Rumi, I was wrong to do those things, I was wrong to tell you to hide, I was wrong to tell you to lie to your partners. Not you, never you.”

Rumi sniffles, “But you said–”

“I was wrong,” grits Celine through her sobs. “I said that–it’s no excuse, but I said that because I didn’t understand you, I had no idea what to do with someone like you, you were and are unprecedented, but Rumi, Rumi, Rumi, you’re not a mistake.” A kiss, feather-light, touches the crown of Rumi’s head. “You never were.”

Celine’s voice is thick and warm and honest. “Rumi, you’re a miracle.”

In Celine’s arms, Rumi surrenders entirely. She heaves and clings and kicks down every remaining wall between them and holds Celine as tightly as she holds Rumi.

Murmuring softly, Celine continues, “You’re the product of a love that crossed generations of war. You. You’re the result of two souls so tethered they found their way to each other across different realms of existence.” Her voice drops, until it’s so faint Rumi can barely hear. 

When she does, she lets out a strangled gasp. 

“You’re your mother’s and your father’s final duet,” whispers Celine. “You echo their voices in every note you sing. And…” 

Celine hesitates, but only a moment.

“...you’re my daughter. Whether you ever wanted to be or not.”

Rumi wheezes, her laughter wet and muffled and relieved. 

“That’s all I’ve wanted, Celine.”

For a while, they stay there on the floor, neither willing to break this embrace forged in trust and truth. Rumi’s heart shatters and reforms and shatters anew as her mind spins around each world-ravaging revelation, processing and pausing and processing and pausing in an internal tornado that flings Rumi into the air and flips her around and around until she doesn’t know which way is up.

Through the entirety of it, she sinks as deep into Celine’s arms as she possibly can; nuzzles her cheek to Celine’s neck and inhales the familiar childhood scent of chrysanthemums and tea leaves; revels in the blanketed warmth of a mother’s hug.

Eventually, Rumi feels it’s time to pull away, however reluctantly. (The little girl inside her glows at the realization that Celine waited for Rumi to make the first move.)

Rocking backwards, Rumi drags her sleeve across her face and sniffs. She looks at Celine, who’s once again meeting her gaze intently back.

“I–” Rumi starts, then bites her lip. 

Celine waits patiently.

Drawing herself straight, Rumi quietly says, “I don’t think I can forgive you yet.” She braces for the hurt on Celine’s face, for the inevitable guilt.

To her surprise, Celine nods slowly. There’s a gleam of pride in her eyes. “Of course,” she says, almost haughty. “I raised you with more dignity than that.”

Rumi lets out a startled laugh. She grins tentatively at Celine, who matches with her own hesitant smile. “But maybe someday?”

Celine’s lips quiver. “I’d like that very much,” she says, voice trembling.

Her eyes never leave Rumi’s face, and Rumi gears herself up to ask about the deal with the constant staring when she realizes–

Why can’t you look at me?!

Oh.

… Oh.

“I love you, Rumi,” Celine says. 

For the first time in as long as Rumi can remember, Rumi believes her.

“...I love you too, Celine.” 

The emptiness in her chest feels smaller.

Still hesitant, still learning, the two of them help each other up. Rumi takes Celine’s wrist and lightly tugs her to the couch, somewhere they can sit more comfortably than in a heap on the floor.

They talk a little more: about growing up, about the Idol Awards, about Jinu, about the future. They decide on starting with a monthly dinner date, just the two of them.

“Well…” Rumi hems. “I may not be allowed to go alone, at least not for the first few.”

Celine chuckles, glancing towards the hallway to the bedrooms and the two shadows on the opposite wall that expose the lurkers just out of sight. “I’d be shocked if they did allow that.” Pausing, she muses, “Should I procure a poison testing kit?”

Sputtering, Rumi waves her hands wildly in the air. “No! No?” She thinks, then settles on, “No, they wouldn’t do that.”

Smiling slyly, as if she'd somehow learned something in the past hour of conversation that Rumi didn't know, Celine says, “Wouldn’t they? They love you very much, you know.”

Rumi’s eyes soften. “They do,” she murmurs, absentmindedly tucking a strand of hair back behind her ear.

Celine sighs. “I’m sorry I pushed you to hide from them, that I assumed their reactions.” Rumi grimaces slightly, thinking of the exact way her patterns were revealed. She’s grateful when Celine takes the hint not to ask. “I’ve never been more glad to be wrong,” Celine finishes.

Instead of answering, Rumi thinks of Mira and Zoey and everything they’ve done for her before and after the Idol Awards, and gently smiles.

Celine raises an eyebrow. There’s an oddly mirthful twinkle in her eye as she adds, “Don’t let them go.”

Solemnly, Rumi vows, “Never.”

“Make sure they know too.”

“Yes, Celine.” 

“I mean it, Rumi,” Celine nags, “tell them what they mean to you.”

Exasperated, Rumi says, “They already know what they mean to me, Celine.”

Celine stares. “...Do you know what they mean to you?”

Shifting, Rumi fights the urge to roll her eyes. “Obviously!”

“...Ah. Well, when you figure it out, promise me you’ll tell them.”

Rumi’s baffled. “I have?”

“Of course, Rumi,” Celine says dismissively.

Rumi blinks, affronted. A thought springs into her mind, and instead of quelling it, she decides to allow herself to be bold. “You’re kind of infuriating, do you know that?”

Sitting ramrod straight, Celine prickles, “Excuse me? Rumi, how da–” She freezes. “...Huh. Do you know your mother used to tell me the same thing?”

Rumi lights up. “Did she really?”

“All the time,” says Celine with a nod, “especially when I insisted we wake up early to practice extra, or cut our breaks short to keep working, or–”

Clapping her hands over her ears, Rumi feels her face burning. “Oh,” she moans, “oh no.”

“Hm?” Celine tilts her head.

“I’m realizing something,” Rumi whispers, horrified.

She quickly changes the subject, and as the minutes pass, Rumi glances at the clock and notes that it’s approaching lunchtime already, she's actually really hungry, and she’s got rehearsal later this afternoon. The conversation winds down with Rumi walking Celine to the penthouse door and promising to schedule a dinner together soon.

As Celine reaches for the door handle, she hesitates, then turns to Rumi. “Next time we talk, ask me again about your parents. Both of them. I promise I'll answer everything I can." Overwhelmed, Rumi nods her head furiously. "Thank you," Celine continues, "for giving me the chance to start over.”

Timidly, she reaches her hand out and lightly caresses the markings on Rumi’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs again. “And I’m proud of you.”

Beneath Celine’s touch, Rumi glows with the praise.

Something missing, something just right, snaps into place in Rumi’s chest at long last when Celine vehemently adds, “All of you.”

—

And she is.

Celine is so proud of Rumi.

Of the way she leads her team, of the way she cares for everyone around her, of the way she looked at something warped and flawed and chose not accept it, but to build it anew.

Of everything, everything about her, about the incredible woman she’s grown up to be.

The next time they meet, when they have more time to talk, Celine will be certain to tell Rumi this, and the next time, and the next time as well.

Reluctantly, Celine pulls away. “Now go,” she says, “before Mira and Zoey grow too impatient and burst out with some sort of improvised weaponry.”

Scoffing, Rumi starts, “They wouldn’t–”

There’s an odd clatter from the hallway. Rumi stiffens. She glances back and forth between Celine and the source of the noise. “Okay, bye,” she says awkwardly, pivoting towards the hall.

“Don’t forget to tell them!” Celine reminds.

“Right, right,” Rumi answers distractedly, “yeah, okay–whaaat are you two doing with that–”

Two bright voices excitedly chime, “Rumi! ”

Lingering at the door a moment longer, Celine recalls she owes someone an update and pulls out her phone.

Bobby

Before she leaves, she glances into the recycling bin at the contracts she’d brought.

Never in Celine’s life has she been more glad to have an idea rejected.

She steps through the door and towards the elevator to the mixed echoes of fond voices, two giggling and one scolding, and trusts that this time, the mistakes of the past won’t be repeated.

Celine smiles.

To get to watch the new generation succeed where the old failed? 

Well. 

There’s no greater privilege.