Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Saja Boys' pink smoke had finally begun to dissipate, leaving the crowd in a state of dazed, euphoric bliss. The Hunters stood frozen, their instincts warring with the bizarre reality of a demonic boy band.

Then, a new sound ripped through the sugary aftermath. It was a raw, screaming blast of noise from a grungy side alley. A frantic, pounding drumbeat and a voice shredded with desperation, the absolute opposite of the Saja Boys' polished harmony.

Mira’s head snapped toward the noise, her body instantly coiling. Her sharp, dark eyes narrowed. This wasn't a distraction; it was an escalation. Her gaze locked onto the source: two figures under a flickering light. One, a drummer with intense, focused eyes, his arms a blur of motion, beating the drums with a ferocity that seemed to shake the alley itself. The other, a lean singer with a desperate energy, gripping a microphone like a lifeline, his voice cracking with a pain that felt too real to be a performance. They were all chaotic movement and frayed edges.

"Great," she muttered, her voice a low growl. "The scary ones showed up."

Zoey’s initial alarm melted into wide-eyed fascination. The music was chaotic, yes, but it was... real. It thrummed with an energy that the Saja Boys' perfect pop completely lacked. The drummer was incredible, his skill obvious even in the chaos. The singer's raw emotion was captivating. "They're really good," she breathed, a smile tugging at her lips. "Maybe they're, like, protest artists! Against the Saja Boys!"

Rumi felt the sound like a physical blow to the chest. The screaming lyrics—Infestation in my mind's imagination!—echoed the constant, screaming anxiety in her own head. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck. She could feel the hidden patterns on her arms seem to pulse, as if the singer's voice was peeling back her layers. How? Who are they?

“They’re clearly demons,” Mira stated, her voice cutting through the noise. Her hand hovered near the hidden weapon at her back. She looked every bit the fighter, her posture rigid and ready. “The Saja Boys are the lure. These are the attack dogs.”

“You can’t know that!” Zoey argued, her bright, optimistic eyes still glued to the frantic drummer. She gestured excitedly. “Look at them! That’s not demonic, that’s just… really intense! They’re amazing! That drum fill!”

“They appeared out of nowhere, Zoey! Right after the actual demons! That’s not a coincidence, it’s a strategy!”

The singer’s voice rose to a desperate, cracking shout, his gaze seeming to sweep over the crowd before landing on them with an unsettling intensity.

Can you save, can you save my... Can you save my heavydirtysoul?

The words landed like a verdict on Rumi. Guilt, cold and sharp, lanced through her. That’s what she was. That’s what she carried. She was the infestation. This was a judgment shouted from the shadows for her alone.

‘Heavy dirty soul’? Mira’s eyes narrowed to slits. "They’re not even hiding it. They’re boasting." She took a step forward, ready to charge.

"Will you stop?!" Zoey grabbed Mira’s arm, pulling her back. Her expression was one of pure frustration. "It's a metaphor! For, like, depression and stuff! It's deep! They're singing about inner turmoil! We could learn from this!"

The song ended on a dark, final note. The small crowd that had gathered was silent for a beat, then broke into startled, genuine applause.

The two musicians didn't bow. The singer dropped his mic like it was burning him, and in a panic, they both scrambled to grab their gear, fleeing down the alley like they were being chased, vanishing into the darkness.

"They're running because they know we saw through them," Mira snapped, yanking her arm from Zoey's grip. She glared at the empty alley, her jaw tight. "Cowards."

"Or they're scared because three scary-looking girls were staring them down like they were about to murder them!" Zoey shot back, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "They were brilliant! And we scared them off!"

Rumi said nothing. She just stood there, the words heavy dirty soul ringing in her ears, a mantra of her own shame. Mira saw a threat. Zoey saw an artist. Rumi felt the terrifying weight of a truth she could never speak, sung back at her by a stranger who saw right through the golden lie of HUNTR/X. The guilt was a stone in her stomach. They knew what she was. And it was only a matter of time before everyone else did, too.

Chapter Text

The transition wasn't a fade or a blur; it was a violent, silent scream of reality tearing in two. One moment: the cluttered, familiar comfort of their studio in Columbus. The smell of old pizza, spilled coffee, and the warm electronics of their gear. The sound of their own argument still hanging in the air. The next: a gut-punch of absolute disorientation.

The world slammed back into existence with the sensory overload of a damp Seoul alleyway. The humid air, thick with the greasy scent of frying mandu and the acrid tang of scooter exhaust, felt like a physical weight on their skin. The clatter of their own equipment hitting the wet pavement was deafening in the sudden, profound silence that followed the rip in the world. The tear they'd fallen through was gone, sealed up as if it had never been, leaving behind only a ringing in their ears and the chilling certainty that they were irretrievably lost.

Josh slowly uncurled, lowering his arms from where they had instinctively shielded his face. His heart was a frantic, caged bird hammering against his ribs. The familiar weight of his drumsticks was still clutched in his white-knuckled hands, a tiny anchor in a sea of impossible wrongness. He stared at them, then at the grimy brick wall inches from his nose, his mind refusing to process the information his eyes were sending.

Instinctively, his free hand patted his pocket, seeking the familiar rectangular comfort of his phone. He yanked it out. The screen was black.

No, no, no, he muttered, jamming his thumb against the power button. Nothing. He held it down, his breath catching in his throat. The screen remained obstinately, terrifyingly dark. A cold wave of pure dread washed over him, more potent than the initial disorientation. The last tether to their entire world had just been severed. The panic rose in his throat, a silent scream that found its way out as a choked, desperate whisper to the sky. God... why? What is this?

It wasn't a theological question. It was the raw, honest cry of a lost child—a foxhole prayer from a alleyway at the end of the world.

...Dude, he finally managed, the word a dry, cracked thing. He held up the dead device to Tyler, his hand trembling. My phone… it's gone. It's completely dead. What… what was that?

Tyler was already on his feet, his posture coiled tight with a fight-or-flight tension that had nowhere to go. His wide eyes scanned the narrow, suffocating walls of the dead-end alley, taking in the overflowing bins, the faded Hangeul graffiti, the steam rising from a sewer grate. It was all terrifyingly, mundanely real. He pulled out his own phone, hitting the button. Same black screen. Same void.

That… Tyler's voice was a low mix of awe and pure, unadulterated panic. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, his gaze darting to every shadow, the reality of their isolation crashing down. That was not the bathroom. He finally looked at Josh, seeing the stark fear on his friend's face. Where are we?

It was then that the sound hit them, a wave of noise crashing over the alley's relative quiet. It was a roar of screaming, ecstatic cheers from a main street just out of view, a sound of such sheer, manufactured joy that it felt alien and threatening. It was followed by the synthetic, overpowering thump of a bassline and a ridiculously catchy pop melody, so polished it felt sterile.

Driven by a shared, desperate need for answers, they crept to the mouth of the alley and peered out.

The contrast was surreal. They stood in grimy shadow, looking out into a blinding spectacle of light and color. On a pristine stage under a canopy of fairy lights, five impossibly handsome young men in perfectly coordinated white-and-silver outfits moved in flawless, hypnotic unison. Their performance was a masterclass of precision, every step, every gesture, every synchronized hair flip calculated for maximum effect.

Whoa, Josh breathed, the professional musician in him momentarily overriding the existential terror. The drummer's technique was impeccable, the production value astronomical. He fumbled again with his dead phone, a helpless gesture. They're… really good. Are we… are we in Korea? Is this some kind of hidden camera music video shoot? Are we about to get punk'd? The hope in his voice was thin and desperate.

Tyler didn't answer. He wasn't looking at the performance. His intense gaze was fixed on the crowd. The adoration radiating from the sea of faces was a palpable, almost physical force. But to Tyler, it felt… wrong. It was sticky, cloying, like honey laced with poison. He saw the ecstatic smiles, the tears of joy, but beneath the surface, he felt a hollow ache, a sense of being drained rather than entertained. The perfect pop song wasn't filling them up; it was syphoning something out. A profound sadness, a spiritual oppression, seemed to bleed from the very atmosphere.

A cold dread, entirely separate from the panic of displacement, settled deep in his bones. He could almost taste the metallic aftertaste of the energy in the air.

Something's wrong with this, he muttered, his voice barely audible over the synth-pop crescendo.

Besides the fact we just fell through a portal into a K-pop video? Josh whispered back, his voice tight and high with a nervous energy he tried to dispel by tapping a drumstick rhythmically against his own leg. He gestured wildly with his dead phone. Besides the fact our only way to call for help, get a map, or translate a freaking street sign is a fancy black brick? Besides the fact that we are, and I cannot stress this enough, not in Ohio anymore?

Tyler finally tore his eyes from the unsettling crowd, looking at his best friend's pale, anxious face. The ringing in his ears was fading, replaced by the screaming of a truth only he seemed to hear. The music was a lure. The joy was a trap. Their lifelines were dead. And they were trapped inside it with no way out.

As the Saja Boys' song ended in a cloud of pink smoke, the crowd's roar was deafening. The energy was addictive, but left a metallic aftertaste in the air.

We have to do something, Tyler said, the feeling a conviction he didn't understand.

Like what? Ask for directions? Josh hissed. They look like they're about to hand out free samples of whatever they're selling and I don't think I want any.

Tyler was already moving, dragging a discarded pallet into a semi-clear space. We play.

Play what? Our greatest hits for the nice people of... wherever this is? They don't know us here, man!

They will, Tyler said, his voice gaining a strange certainty. He plugged his mic into the small amp he'd miraculously been holding when they were pulled through. It sputtered to life with a promising hum. We play. It's the only thing we know how to do.

With a shared look of sheer, clueless desperation, they started. The first distorted bass note of HeavyDirtySoul ripped through the sugary aftermath of the Saja Boys' set. A few people at the edge of the crowd turned, confused.

Josh fell into the rhythm, a frantic, pounding heartbeat of confusion and fear. It was awful. It was perfect. It was real.

"There's an infestation in my mind's imagination!" Tyler screamed into the mic, and it wasn't a performance anymore; it was a exorcism of his own terror. "I hope that they choke on smoke 'cause I'm smokin' them out the basement!"

A small crowd began to gather at the mouth of the alley, drawn by the raw, unfiltered noise. They looked intrigued, a little shocked. It was the antithesis of the polished perfection they'd just witnessed.

Midway through the first verse, Tyler's sweeping gaze caught on a small group of girls who hadn't been there a moment before. They were standing apart from the main crowd, watching them with an intensity that felt different. They were stunning, dressed in expensive streetwear, but they held themselves like soldiers.

His eyes locked with the one in the center. And he felt it. A jolt. A dissonance. She was shining, like a star, but the light was wrapped around a core of something deeply fractured and old. It wasn't evil. It was... a prison. A beautiful, gilded cage with something desperate inside.

He didn't know what she was. He just knew she was different. And she was listening.

He sang the next lines directly at her, his voice a ragged plea.

"This is not rap, this is not hip-hop. Just another attempt to make the voices stop..."

The girl with the sharpest eyes, the one with dark hair, took a step forward. She looked hostile, her hand twitching like she wanted to reach for a weapon. The perky one next to her just looked fascinated, her head bobbing slightly to Josh's beat.

Tyler, Josh muttered between hits, his eyes wide on the three girls. The scary, pretty ones are looking at us.

Just play, Tyler growled back, not breaking eye contact with the leader. He poured every question, every ounce of his disorientation into the chorus.

"Can you save, can you save my... Can you save my heavydirtysoul?"

The song built to its chaotic end. The small crowd they'd drawn was staring, mesmerized and slightly alarmed by the raw display. The three girls were still there, unmoving. The leader looked... haunted. Seen.

As the last note faded, the girl with the dark hair took another, more aggressive step.

Okay, we're done, Josh said, immediately grabbing his snare.

Yep, Tyler agreed, the spell broken. They weren't heroes. They were two lost guys with a laptop and a drum kit. He dropped the mic. It wasn't a dramatic statement; he was just done. They scrambled backward, shoving their makeshift gear into their bags, and bolted down the opposite end of the alley, melting into the evening foot traffic without a look back.

They didn't stop until they were several blocks away, leaning against a convenience store wall, hearts hammering.

What... was that? Josh panted.

I have no idea, Tyler replied, staring at his shaking hands. But the music... it did something here. It wasn't just sound.

It had been a key. It had unlocked a look in that one girl's eyes. A crack in the perfect facade. They were clueless. They were lost. But for a second, in the chaos, they hadn't been musicians. They'd been something else. And that was a terrifying, exhilarating feeling.

The door to the cramped, unfamiliar practice room they'd stumbled upon slammed shut, the lock clicking into place. For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing.

Josh slumped against the wall, sliding down to sit on the scuffed floor. Okay. What. Was. That.

Tyler paced the small space, running a hand through his hair. That was... a concert. And a war. At the same time. He stopped, staring at his hands as if they belonged to someone else. The music here... it's not just music. It's a tool. A weapon.

The drumming, Josh said, holding up his still-trembling hands. It wasn't just keeping time. It felt like I was... building something. A wall. A shield. Every hit had weight. Real weight.

And the lyrics, Tyler continued, his voice hushed with awe and terror. It wasn't just singing. It was like... throwing a rock at a window. You could see it hit. You could see it crack something. He thought of the girl in the center, the one whose shining exterior seemed to fracture for a second when he sang those words. Heavy dirty soul. He hadn't known what it meant. He'd just sung the truth he felt in the air. And it had done something.

They were like soldiers, Josh murmured, looking at the door as if he expected it to be kicked in. Those three girls. The way they moved. They weren't fans. They were... assessing. The dark-haired one looked like she wanted to fight us.

The shiny one looked like she wanted to cry, Tyler added quietly.

And the happy one looked like she wanted to ask for an autograph, Josh finished, the absurdity of it breaking the tension slightly. They fell into a brief, hysterical silence that was almost a laugh.

Tyler finally stopped pacing and leaned his forehead against the cool wall. We fell through a... a hole. We're in a world where pop stars are probably demons and our songs are... are actual weapons. He let out a shaky breath. This isn't a tour. This is a mission we didn't sign up for.

Josh nodded slowly, pulling his knees to his chest. So what do we do?

We do the only thing we know how to do, Tyler said, turning around. His expression was a mix of fear and a strange, dawning determination. We write. We play. We scream into the dark and see what screams back. He looked upward, not at the ceiling, but beyond it. And we pray we're not just making it worse.

It wasn't a formal prayer. It was a silent, desperate thought sent into the void.

We're clueless. We're scared. If this is where we're supposed to be... give us the notes to play.

Josh picked up a stray drumstick and tapped out a quiet, rhythm on the floor. A simple, steady beat. An anchor in the insanity.

Okay, he said. Okay. So we're weaponizing music now. Let's figure out how to reload.

Chapter Text

The silence in the room was heavy, thick with the unspoken understanding that the rules of their reality had been shredded. Tyler finally pushed off from the wall, a new, frantic energy buzzing under his skin.

It's not just the sound, he said, his voice low with intensity. It's the intent. The feeling behind it. He held out his hand, palm up, concentrating. He thought of the desperation in HeavyDirtySoul, the feeling of being trapped, of fighting a war inside your own mind. A flicker of light, pale and blue, sparked above his palm. It sputtered and died.

Josh watched, eyes wide. Dude.

Again, Tyler muttered, closing his eyes. He didn't just remember the lyrics; he plunged himself back into the feeling that had written them. The claustrophobia. The need to break out. To cut through the lies.

A longer, steadier beam of light erupted from his hand, humming with a soft, resonant frequency. It lengthened, solidified, and with a final, quiet shing, it took form. It wasn't a traditional blade. It was a sleek, glowing longsword made of pure, solidified light and amplified emotion. The blade seemed to vibrate, emitting a barely audible, haunting chord.

Whoa, Josh breathed. He looked down at his own hands, then at his drumsticks. He thought of the frantic, protective rhythm he'd played. The need to build a wall, to defend, to hit back against the overwhelming weirdness. He focused on that feeling—the pounding heartbeat of the song, the shockwave of a snare hit.

A warm, golden light enveloped his drumsticks. It grew, morphing their shape, expanding them. The light hardened, receded, and in his hands, he now held two formidable, perfectly weighted war hammers. Their heads were sleek and geometric, and they hummed with the deep, percussive power of a bass drop.

Okay, Josh said, hefting the hammers. They felt like an extension of his own arms. This is officially the coolest and most terrifying thing that has ever happened.

Tyler swung the sword experimentally. It cut through the air with a clean, sharp sound, leaving a faint, shimmering trail of light. It responds to the music. To the emotion in it.

Driven by a new, reckless curiosity, Josh took a running start and jumped, putting all his force into it. Instead of a normal leap, he launched himself upward, easily clearing ten feet and flipping in mid-air before landing with a soft tap, the hammers still in his hands. He stared at his feet, then at Tyler, a massive, incredulous grin spreading across his face.

Did you see that?!

Tyler's own attempt was less graceful but just as effective. A powerful leap carried him to the high ceiling, and he pushed off, spinning before landing beside Josh. The acrobatic, high-energy movement from their live shows wasn't just for show here. It was a skillset.

They're like us, Tyler said, the realization dawning. The hunters. Their weapons... their moves... it's the same. It's all music.

Josh tapped his hammers together. They didn't clang, but let out a deep, concussive BOOM that shook the walls and sent a visible wave of force through the air. So we're not just making weapons. We're learning the local language.

Tyler looked at the glowing sword in his hand, then at the door, towards the city where demonic boy bands and soldier-girl pop stars existed.

Yeah, he said, his voice steady for the first time since they'd arrived. And we just learned how to swear.

Okay, okay. Weaponized music. Cool. New problem: I am so hungry I could eat one of your light-swords.

We have no money. We have no idea where we are. Do you think we could play for food? Like, literal busking? Tyler's stomach growled loudly on cue.

What's the exchange rate? One chorus of 'Stressed Out' for a kimbap? A full drum solo for a whole BBQ plate?

The attempted joke fell flat, swallowed by the grim reality of their situation. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of a city that wasn't theirs. Tyler hugged his knees to his chest, the adrenaline crash leaving him hollowed out. He looked at his hands—the hands that just held a sword made of light—and then at the duffel bag that held everything he owned from a world that might be gone forever.

He unzipped it slowly, his movements reverent. He pulled out a worn hoodie, the fabric smelling faintly of home, and a dead phone with a cracked screen. These mundane objects were now priceless artifacts. His fingers brushed against the cover of a notebook filled with lyrics that felt like they'd been ripped from a prophecy he never understood.

Josh's bravado finally cracked. The fear he'd been holding back spilled out in a whisper. What if we never get back? What if we're stuck here forever?

Tyler didn't answer immediately. He just stared at the notebook, his throat tight. The weight of it all—the fear, the confusion, the sheer loss—pressed down on him. A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path through the dust on his cheek. He didn't wipe it away.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, raw, and almost singing, the words a fragile breath more than a melody. It was a fragment, a plea sent into the silent, unfamiliar air.

"My shadow tilts its head at me...
Spirits in the dark are waiting..."

He swallowed hard.

"Be the one, be the one to take my soul and make it undone...
Be the one, be the one to take me home and show me the sun..."

He let the silence hang for a moment, the echo of the words feeling like the only truth they had. He looked up at Josh, his eyes glistening but his voice gaining a sliver of conviction.

But that portal wasn't random, Josh. It felt intentional. We were singing about this… all of it. The silence. The heavy soul. The fighting… We were meant to be here. I don't know why, and I'm terrified, but we were meant for this.

It was at that exact moment, as this declaration of bewildered faith hung in the air, that a new sound cut through the stillness—not a spirit, but the sharp, precise click of the door being unlocked.

The door swung open.

Silhouetted against the dim light of the warehouse stood the three Hunters. Mira in front, her expression unreadable but her posture coiled. Zoey peered over her shoulder, eyes wide with a mixture of caution and intense curiosity. And just behind them, Rumi, her gaze fixed on Tyler, her face a mask of complex emotion—having heard every word of the haunting, prophetic prayer and the stunning claim that followed it from the other side of the door.

Chapter Text

The air in the abandoned textile factory the boys had claimed as a hideout was thick with dust and the lingering hum of summoned energy. Tyler was mid-flip, his light-sword a blue arc behind him, when the main freight door groaned and then shrieked as it was forced open.

Three figures stood silhouetted against the twilight.

The Hunters had found them.

There was no hesitation. In a flash of synchronized motion, Rumi’s golden sickle materialized in her hands, Mira’s twin blades glinted wickedly, and Zoey’s energy-charged knuckles crackled to life.

Across the warehouse floor, Tyler landed in a crouch, his sword rising defensively. Josh didn't miss a beat, slamming his hammers together. The resulting BOOM was a physical force, a wall of sound that made the Hunters flinch and sent dust raining from the steel rafters.

For a long, tense moment, no one moved. The two groups stared each other down across the vast, empty space, their weapons humming with power that was fundamentally the same, yet diametrically opposed.

Mira broke the silence, her voice a razor’s edge. I knew it. New demons. A different aesthetic. Her eyes scanned their makeshift camp—the sleeping bags, the scattered lyric books, the half-eaten bag of chips. You’re sloppy.

We’re tourists! Josh shot back, hefting his hammers. We didn’t ask for a front-row seat to your demon idol apocalypse!

Then leave, Rumi said, her voice strained. The golden light of her sickle seemed to flicker, the patterns on her arms burning beneath her jacket. These strangers had seen her shame. They had to be silenced.

We would if we knew how! Tyler yelled, his grip tightening on the sword. The blade’s resonant hum pitched higher with his frustration.

Zoey, curious despite herself, took a step forward, ignoring Mira’s warning hiss. Your weapons… they’re made of music. It wasn’t a question.

So are yours, Tyler countered, his eyes locked on Rumi. Yours are just… polished.

The accusation hung in the air. Polished. Manufactured. Theirs were raw.

Enough talk, Mira snarled. She exploded into motion, a blur of black leather and gleaming steel, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. Her blades aimed for disarming strikes, precise and lethal.

Josh was ready. He didn’t try to match her speed. He met her charge with a ground-shaking stomp, one hammer crashing down to create a concussive wave that forced her to veer off course. The other hammer came around in a wide, powerful arc meant to crush, not cut.

At the same time, Rumi moved. She didn’t charge. She flowed, her sickle spinning in a complex, beautiful pattern meant to entrap and dismantle Tyler’s unfamiliar weapon style.

Tyler didn’t know how to fight like her. So he didn’t. He fought like he performed. He used the environment. He pushed off a support beam, flipping over her sweeping strike, and his sword met her sickle with a shower of blue and gold sparks. The sound wasn’t a clang of metal, but a dissonant, screaming chord that hurt their ears.

Stop! Zoey yelled, but it was useless.

It was a chaotic, brutal dance. Mira’s aggressive, close-quarters strikes against Josh’s powerful, area-denying slams. Rumi’s graceful, deadly precision against Tyler’s unpredictable, acrobatic desperation. They were speaking the same language of light and sound, but in different, clashing dialects.

The fight reached its peak as Mira cornered Josh against a wall. He crossed his hammers, bracing for her final blow. At the same moment, Rumi disarmed Tyler with a twist of her sickle, his light-sword skittering across the concrete, dissolving into motes of blue light.

It was over.

But no killing blow came.

Mira stood over Josh, her chest heaving, the point of her blade an inch from his throat. Rumi had Tyler pinned, her knee on his chest, her golden sickle at his neck.

And Zoey was there, right beside them, her energized fists not aimed at the boys, but held out in a plea between her teammates. LOOK AT THEM!

Her shout echoed in the sudden quiet.

Look at their stuff! Zoey insisted, her voice desperate. They’re not demons! They’re lost! They have snacks! And… and sad-looking sleeping bags! Demons don’t pack a sad lunch!

Mira’s eyes flickered from Josh’s terrified face to the open notebook nearby, filled with scribbled lyrics and musical notations, not demonic sigils. Rumi felt Tyler’s heart hammering under her knee, a frantic, human rhythm. She saw the genuine fear and confusion in his eyes, not malevolent glee.

Slowly, reluctantly, Mira lowered her blade. Rumi released her pressure and stood up, taking a step back. Her sickle vanished.

Tyler scrambled back, gasping. Josh slowly lowered his hammers, which faded back into simple drumsticks.

The four of them stood in a shaky truce, panting in the dusty air.

The Saja Boys, Rumi finally said, her voice quiet. You were singing against them.

They feel wrong, Tyler said, sitting up and rubbing his neck. The pop star guys. Their music is a trap. Ours is… I don’t know. A wrench.

A very loud, very annoying wrench, Mira added, though the hostility had bled from her tone, replaced by wary assessment.

They’re stealing souls, Zoey said bluntly. And they’re gonna perform at the Idol Awards and basically eat the entire audience.

Josh paled. Okay. That’s… that’s way worse than we thought.

We’re trying to stop them, Rumi said. It was the truth, even if her own reasons were now terrifyingly complicated.

Tyler looked at Josh, then back at the Hunters. A silent conversation passed between them. They were in over their heads. They had no idea what they were doing.

We don’t know how to get home, Tyler admitted, the confession seeming to cost him. But we can’t just let that happen.

Another long silence stretched out, fragile and uncertain.

Our headquarters is secure, Rumi said finally, the words tasting strange. She was inviting the unknown, the dangerous, into their sanctum. But the enemy of my enemy… We have resources. Information.

Mira looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. Rumi, we can’t just—

We just fought them to a standstill, Mira, Rumi interrupted, her voice gaining a sliver of its old authority. They’re powerful. And they’re aimed at the same target. She looked at the two bewildered musicians. It’s not an alliance. It’s a… temporary ceasefire.

Tyler slowly got to his feet. He looked at the three powerful, terrifying, and deeply complicated girls. They were his only lifeline in this insane world.

Okay, he said, his voice hoarse. Ceasefire.

It was the most uneasy truce in history, forged not in trust, but in shared desperation and the haunting, unspoken knowledge that the music they all wielded was the only key to saving a world that wasn't even theirs.

Chapter Text

The air in the Hunters' sleek, high-tech command center hummed with a new, discordant tension. Tyler and Josh stood awkwardly amidst the glowing holographic maps and data streams, their rumpled clothes and tired eyes a stark contrast to the pristine, ordered chaos.

The elevator doors hissed open.

Celine entered. She didn't storm in; her presence simply filled the room, cold and imposing. Her gaze, sharp enough to cut diamond, swept over the two intruders, bypassing Rumi, Mira, and Zoey completely.

So, she said, her voice a low, controlled chill. These are the variables.

Rumi stepped forward. Celine, they're not—

I will assess what they are, Celine interrupted, her eyes finally settling on Tyler. He felt the weight of her scrutiny like a physical pressure. You wield power you do not understand. You introduce chaos into a meticulously balanced equation. Who are you to interfere?

Tyler stood his ground, though his heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. We didn't ask to be here. But we are. And we saw what those... Saja Boys are doing. We can't just watch.

Your sentiment is irrelevant, Celine stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. Your methodology is reckless. You shout into the void with no discipline, no control. You are a spark in a room full of gunpowder.

Josh bristled. We got your attention, didn't we?

You got everyone's attention, Celine shot back, her gaze flicking to him. In a war, that makes you a target. Or a bomb waiting to detonate. Your power is rooted in chaos. Ours is rooted in generations of order, of harmony. Of purpose. She took a step closer to Tyler. What is your purpose? What is the source of this… noisy power of yours?

Tyler met her gaze. The words came out quieter than he intended, but with a steel he didn't know he had. It's not noise. It's a prayer.

The word hung in the air. Mira looked confused. Zoey curious. Rumi, stricken.

Celine's perfect composure cracked for a microsecond. A flicker of utter disdain. Prayer? You base your actions on faith? On the hope that some unseen force approves of your dissonance? She almost laughed, a cold, dry sound. Faith is the most chaotic variable of all. It is unpredictable. Unquantifiable. It is a weakness.

It's not a weakness, Tyler said, his voice strengthening. It's the reason we're still standing. It's the reason we didn't just curl up in a ball when we fell into this nightmare. It’s the belief that we’re here for a reason, even a messed-up one. That we can help.

Your belief is a danger, Celine stated flatly. Order is our weapon. Discipline. Predictability. The Hommoon is a shield built on perfect, harmonious resonance. Your… 'prayer' is static. It cannot be integrated. It can only corrupt.

The ideological chasm between them was vast and deep. Order vs. Chaos. Certainty vs. Faith.

Before the standoff could escalate, Zoey, unable to bear the tension, blurted out, We have to work together! The Idol Awards are in two days! We need every weapon we have!

Celine's icy eyes narrowed. Their power is incompatible.

Let us prove it isn't, Tyler said, surprising himself.

Hesitantly, Zoey approached a large, crystalline console in the center of the room. This is the core harmonic frequency of our anthem. The base of the Hommoon's strength. She tapped a sequence, and a beautiful, simple cascade of golden notes filled the room—a pure, powerful chord of protection and unity. It's order. It's sure.

Josh listened, his head tilting. He could feel the power in it, but it was… simple. Straight lines. He looked at his drumsticks.

Can you play it? Zoey asked him.

Play it? I can feel it, Josh said, a familiar spark in his eyes. He stepped toward the console, but didn't touch it. Instead, he closed his eyes, listening to the looped sequence. He raised his sticks.

He didn't just replicate the rhythm. He felt it. He felt the order, the discipline… and his own chaotic, protective energy responded. He began to play.

The simple, golden harmonic sequence poured from the speakers. But as Josh played over it, something miraculous happened. His drumming didn't clash. It didn't corrupt. It complexified.

His beats added syncopated layers, unexpected fills that shouldn't have worked but somehow did. He built a framework of rhythm around the harmonic pillar, reinforcing it, making it more resilient, more dynamic. The pure golden light of the anthem began to swirl with threads of electric blue and warm, percussive gold.

It was no longer just the Hunter's anthem. It was something new. A hybrid. The order provided the foundation. The chaos provided the unexpected, reinforcing strength.

The energy in the room shifted. The air crackled with a new, vibrant power that was both disciplined and free.

Josh finished with a final, crashing symbol hit that faded into a resonant hum. The new hybrid chord hung in the air, thrumming with potential.

Everyone was silent, staring at the console where the light had swirled.

Celine looked… shaken. Her philosophy, her entire world view, was based on the purity of their order. This was heresy.

She said nothing. She simply turned and walked out of the room, the hiss of the elevator doors closing behind her like a period at the end of a sentence she refused to read.

The uneasy alliance held, not because of trust, but because of a single, undeniable truth: their chaos didn't break the order. It could evolve it.

Chapter Text

The stage of Who Can Chug the Most Hot Sauce? was a complete explosion of neon colors. The air itself was a spicy haze, making eyes water from ten feet away. The Saja Boys, in their pastel outfits, were gamely playing along, their demonic constitutions making the "blazing hot" sauce look like mild ketchup.

From their perch behind the stage, the three Hunters monitored, tensed like coiled springs.

Once they come off stage, Rumi whispered, her voice tight, we jump them. No more games.

And the new guys? Tyler whispered back in a joking tone that Mira took too seriously.

Just stay there and don't mess this up, Mira growled back.

Ok, ok, Tyler responded.

Back to backups, Josh joked.

Below, the host was milking the drama. Looks like Romance is out due to heartburn? It's a dead heat between my handsome co-host and Baby Saja!

Suddenly, Jinu's head snapped up. His eyes, glowing faintly with amusement, found theirs in the shadows. A sly, slow, and knowing smile spread across his face.

Then why say goodbye when we have extra special guests coming up? he purred into his microphone. Please welcome HUNTR/X!

A spotlight slammed onto the girls, blinding them as they desperately hid their weapons behind their backs. The audience erupted.

Rumi's plan evaporated. They were trapped in the glare.

Um. We just wanted to congratulate our hoobaes... Rumi began, trying to salvage the situation.

Jinu talked right over her. And of course, Play Games with Us! Bring out the slides!

The chants began. Slide! Slide! Slide!

Rumi's smile was made of glass. Oh no. We couldn't possibly....

In the balls! In the balls! In the balls!

Rumi's eyes met Mira's. There was no way out. Sure, she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. For the fans.

What followed was a disaster of squeaking leather and humiliating, slow-motion descents into the ball pit. The audience cringed. Zoey whimpered, The leather has betrayed us…!

As they finally untangled themselves, covered in garish plastic balls, Jinu gave a shallow, mocking bow. It was truly an honor.

Rumi bowed back, her eyes promising murder. The honor is ours.

The bowing escalated into a ridiculous, passive-aggressive war of politeness until Zoey's back cracked audibly.

The second the Saja Boys turned to leave, the Hunters were on the move. They burst out of the studio, hot on the demons' heels.

They're heading for the bathhouse! Mira yelled.

We finally get to go with Rumi! Zoey cheered, oblivious to the impending fight.

They slammed through the doors of the spa—and skidded to a halt.

Men's? Mira groaned in unison with the others.

Jinu turned, a smirk playing on his lips. Wow. Did you really follow us in here?

Before Rumi could retort, Jinu's expression shifted. We're not here to fight. He gestured to the steamy waters. They are.

Water demons erupted from the pools.

As the Hunters were swarmed, the Saja Boys simply waved. Have fun, Jinu laughed before almost tripping on the wet floor.

But back in the studio, the show wasn't over. The host was staring at the empty stage, panicked. Uh, we seem to have a... situation...

The crew was panicking.

What do you mean they just ran away! You had the two biggest bands in the world! The director screamed at his assistant.

But then, from the side of the stage, a voice called out.

Hey. We'll finish it.

Tyler and Josh walked out, looking completely out of place but determined. They'd seen the Hunters give chase. They'd seen the chaos. Someone had to hold the line here.

The host blinked. Who are you?

Does it matter? Tyler said, grabbing a leftover bottle of sauce. You need someone to chug? We'll chug.

What followed was the most surreal segment in game show history. Tyler, with a focused intensity, downed the sauce like it was a communion of pain, his face a mask of solemn endurance. Josh, beside him, pounded the table like a drum kit with each swallow, hyping the bewildered audience.

They weren't just finishing the show. They were causing a distraction. Drawing attention. Keeping the human audience safe and occupied while the real fight happened elsewhere. They played the fools, but their actions were a deliberate, calculated act of support for their uneasy allies.

They were holding the fort with nothing but bravery and a high tolerance for capsaicin, proving their worth in the most bizarre way imaginable.

The men's bathhouse was a scene of steamy, chaotic war. Water demons, sleek and translucent, slithered from the pools, their forms coalescing from the mist itself. Mira and Zoey were instantly surrounded, a whirlwind of slashing blades and crackling energy.

Don't let this turn you off bathhouses, Rumi! Zoey yelled, kicking a demon back into the water. It's usually really fun and relaxing!

Jinu watched from the sidelines with an amused smirk. Have fun. He turned to leave, nearly slipping on the wet tile. Oh! Oh jeez.

But Rumi was already moving. She ignored the water demons, her focus solely on him. She leaped over a scaly head, landing directly in his path, her golden sickle materializing in her hand.

Whoa! Whoa! Hey, he said, feigning surprise as he dodged her swift strikes.

Mind the face, he chuckled, ducking under a swing. I need it to steal your fans.

Their fight was a bizarre dance of taunts and near-misses. Rumi was driven, furious. Jinu was playful, almost bored, until a well-placed kick from Rumi sent him stumbling back. He grabbed her arm to steady himself, and the force of the pull ripped the sleeve of her leather suit.

The material tore with a sickening shred.

Jinu's playful demeanor vanished. His eyes locked onto her exposed arm, onto the intricate, glowing purple patterns snaking up her skin. His smirk melted into genuine, stunned disbelief.

He stopped fighting entirely.

A Hunter... he breathed, his voice barely a whisper, all trace of mockery gone. ...who's part demon?

The world stopped for Rumi. The sounds of the battle—Mira's grunts, Zoey's battle cries, the hiss of water demons—faded into a dull roar. She looked down at her arm, at the shame she'd spent a lifetime hiding, fully exposed. Her blood ran cold. All the memories flashed before her eyes.

Before she could react, a crash echoed from across the bathhouse. Mira cried out, Rumi, we need your help!

The spell was broken. Jinu's surprise shifted back to a calculating coolness. With a swift motion, he yanked a long bandage from a nearby basket and roughly wrapped it around her exposed arm, covering the evidence.

Looks like you're needed, he said, his voice a low, intrigued murmur. Then he pushed her back towards the fight and melted into the steam, leaving her standing there, horrified and utterly exposed, the ghost of his touch on her skin.

Back in the TV studio, chaos had turned to triumph. Tyler and Josh had not just finished the show; they had conquered it. Tyler, his face flushed and beaded with sweat from the hot sauce, stood panting in the center of the stage. Josh was beside him, drumming a frantic, victorious rhythm on the host's desk with his bare hands.

The audience was on its feet, screaming their approval. The host was staring at the ratings monitor, his jaw on the floor.

Who are these guys? The director whispered to his assistant offstage.

In the sudden, adoring silence, Tyler closed his eyes. The adrenaline, the fear, the confrontation with a reality where demons were real—it all channeled into one thing. A defiance not of this world, but of the one beneath it. The music was his weapon, and his convictions were the arms that wielded it.

Tyler stared at Josh. They shared the same thought with an unknown, but driving purpose behind every movement.

Josh nodded, beginning to expertly maneuver the hot sauce spoons as makeshift drums.

Then Tyler began to sing, a capella, his voice raw and stripped of all its earlier rage, filled now with a potent, declarative clarity. This wasn't a plea to the universe anymore. It was a rebuke. A renunciation. A declaration.

[Chorus]
"But I'll tell 'em, 'Why won't you let me go?
Do I threaten all your plans? I'm insignificant'"

The "them" was no longer ambiguous. It was Gwi-Ma. It was the Saja Boys. It was the devil himself. Your plans. The entire demonic plot they had just witnessed unfolding. Tyler was screaming into the darkness that had tried to claim this city, claiming his own insignificance as a shield—a declaration that he was not a pawn in any infernal design. All while calling on the audience to do the same.

"Please tell 'em, you have no plans for me
I will set my soul on fire, what have I become?"

It was the ultimate act of defiance. You have no claim on me. You have no blueprint for my life. I will burn with a holy fire before I let you write my story. The question what have I become? was no longer one of despair, but of awe at the terrifying, fiery purpose being forged within him.

Josh swung his spoons in every direction and at every object like a maniac. From an outside view, he was losing his mind, and maybe he was, not to madness though, but to something greater than him.

[Outro]
"I'll tell 'em, you have no plans for me, I will set my soul on fire
What have I become? I'll tell 'em, I'll tell 'em, I'll tell 'em
I'll tell 'em, please tell 'em, you have no plans for me
I will set my soul on fire, what have I become? I'm sorry."

His voice cracked on the final, whispered apology. I'm sorry. Sorry for the doubt. Sorry for the fear. Sorry for not seeing the purpose in the pain sooner.

The silence that followed was absolute. Then, the eruption was deafening. The audience hadn't just watched a hot sauce challenge; they had witnessed a raw, unfiltered piece of someone's soul.

Tyler opened his eyes, looking dazed. Josh clapped a hand on his shoulder, a wild grin on his face. They were a hit. A massive, inexplicable hit.

Thank you so much, uhm. Who are you? The host questioned.

We are Twenty One Pilots. Standing up, Tyler purveyed the audience, And so are you.

They had held the line. They had finished the show. They had been a weapon, not of chaos, but of a strange, resonant grace. And in doing so, they had set their souls on a fire that was anything but insignificant.

Chapter Text

The elevator doors hissed open onto the penthouse, releasing a wave of electric energy into the sleek, modern space. The wall of windows showcased a glittering, chaotic Seoul, the Hommoon's weakened state visible in flickering pink fractures across the skyline.

Zoey was practically vibrating, replaying the hot sauce footage on the massive holographic TV. Did you see the look on the host's face? You guys were incredible!

Josh high-fived her, a wide grin on his face. Dude, I thought my tongue was gonna melt. Worth it though!

Your rhythmic construction during the 'Ode to Sleep' finale was... unexpectedly effective, Mira admitted, arms crossed but a hint of respect in her tone. She was analyzing the playback, studying their every move.

Tyler was quieter, leaning against the glass, watching the city. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a hollow, buzzing feeling. The words he'd sung—you have no plans for me—echoed in the quiet of his own mind, a prayer sent into the urban night.

The elevator dinged again.

Bobby burst out, tablet in hand, his face a mask of ecstatic panic. MY NEW FAVORITE PEOPLE! he announced, beelining for Tyler and Josh. What was that? Who are you? Where did you come from? Where are the other 19 pilots? Don't answer that! The analytics are off the charts! The socials are exploding!

He shoved the tablet at them. Graphs and metrics were skyrocketing. #'OdeToSleepChallenge' is trending worldwide! 'HeavyDirtySoul' streams are up 1000%! And the crossover chatter with our 'Golden' release? It's a synergy miracle! You're not just viral, you're electric! You're lightning in a bottle!

He clapped a hand on Tyler's shoulder. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it! The people are hungry for it! That raw... feeling!

While Bobby gushed, Rumi slipped away. The celebration felt like it was happening behind a pane of glass. She moved silently down the hall to her bedroom, closing the door and leaning against it, the bandage on her arm feeling like a brand.

Jinu knew.

The memory of his shocked whisper—A Hunter who's part demon?—played on a loop. Her secret, the foundation of her shame, was now a weapon in the hands of her enemy.

A soft thump at her glass balcony door made her jump.

She turned, expecting a bird. Instead, a large, blue-furred creature with intelligent eyes sat perfectly still on her balcony. A small, neatly folded envelope was clutched in its mouth.

Her heart hammered. She knew this creature. It was the one that had led her to Jinu before.

Hesitantly, she slid the door open. The creature didn't move, just blinked slowly and offered the envelope. She took it, her fingers trembling.

The creature turned and, with a graceful leap, vanished into the night.

Rumi unfolded the note. The handwriting was elegant, precise.

"Hello, friend," it began.

"A soul is not defined by its fractures, but by the light it lets through them. You are more than your blood. You are more than their rules. You are a question they are too afraid to ask.

"The Idol Awards are their stage. But it can be your freedom. The patterns can be broken, not just hidden.

"Meet me. The clock is ticking. - J"

The note fluttered in her trembling hand. It wasn't a threat. It was a promise. A dangerous, terrifying promise of a truth she had never dared to consider.

Outside her door, she could hear Bobby's excited chatter, Josh's laugh, the sound of her team—her family—celebrating a victory.

And in her hand, she held an invitation to betray it all.

She could hear the muffled celebration from the living room—Bobby's exuberant pitch, Josh's laugh, the low hum of the TV. Her family. The people she was about to betray.

She didn't hesitate. She moved with a Hunter's silence, slipping out her balcony door and scaling the side of the tower with a grace that was second nature, descending into the neon-drenched streets below.

He was waiting where she knew he would be, leaning against a lamppost in a quiet, mist-shrouded park. The blue-furred messenger sat at his feet.

You came, Jinu said, a faint smile playing on his lips. I knew you would.

Rumi didn't speak. Her answer was the golden sword that materialized in her hand with a soft shing of light. She launched herself at him, not with a battle cry, but with a silent, focused fury.

The fight was a brutal, one-sided blur. She was all precision and rage, every strike aimed to kill. Jinu didn't summon a weapon. He only dodged and weaved, his movements effortless, almost bored.

This is how you thank me for my honesty? he asked, ducking under a swipe meant to decapitate him. I see you. I know what you are. And I'm not trying to kill you for it.

Liar! she snarled, her voice cracking. She feinted left and struck right, her blade grazing his arm. He hissed in pain, finally looking annoyed.

You're a prisoner, Rumi! A bird in a gilded cage, singing their songs, fighting their wars! Don't you want to know why? Don't you want to know what you truly are?

His words were arrows finding their mark. She redoubled her attacks, driving him back toward a stone wall. I am a Hunter!

You're their secret! he shot back, his voice losing its cool edge for the first time. And secrets are meant to be kept locked away! Or disposed of!

With a final, desperate lunge, she pinned him against the cold stone, her sword at his throat. Her chest heaved, tears of frustration and rage mixing with the fine mist in the air.

Do it, he whispered, his eyes locked on hers. There was no fear in them. Only a challenge. Prove them right. Prove you're just a monster. A thing to be put down.

Her hand shook. The glowing blade pressed against his skin. All she had to do was push. Eliminate the threat. Protect the secret.

She saw it all in that moment. Celine's stern lessons. Mira's unwavering loyalty. Zoey's trusting smile. The patterns on her arm, hidden away, a truth she was supposed to destroy in herself and others.

She couldn't do it.

A sob escaped her. The golden light of her sword flickered and died, dissolving into nothingness. Her hand fell to her side, limp. She stumbled back, turning away from him, wrapping her arms around herself as if she were falling apart.

I can't, she choked out, the admission tearing itself from her. I can't.

Jinu slowly straightened up, rubbing his neck where the blade had been. He watched her, not with triumph, but with something closer to pity.

I know, he said softly. Because you're not a monster, Rumi. You never were.

He left her then, standing alone in the mist, her entire world view shattered at her feet. The weapon had refused its purpose. The prisoner had been offered the key and was too terrified to take it. She was utterly, completely lost.

Chapter Text

The climb back up to the penthouse felt like scaling a mountain of her own shame. Rumi slipped through her balcony door, the chill night air clinging to her like a ghost. From the living room, the sounds of celebration had morphed. The TV was off. The energy was different—focused, intense.

She crept to her door and peered out.

Mira was pacing, a holographic screen floating in the air before her, displaying complex combat algorithms and musical notation. The beat has to be aggressive. A sonic assault. It needs to mimic the feeling of being cornered, of fighting back. She punched the air, a sharp, precise motion.

Zoey was scribbling furiously in one of her many notebooks, chewing on the end of her pen. So sweet, so easy on the eyes, but hideous on the inside, she muttered, writing it down. Yes! A direct insult! Their pretty faces hide their rotten core!

They were writing. They were crafting a weapon. A diss track.

Takedown.

The name alone made Rumi's stomach clench. This was it. This was the song that would cement their victory. The song that would expose the Saja Boys for what they were. The song that would prove she was loyal. A Hunter.

Guilt, cold and sharp, lanced through her. She had just let their enemy walk away. She had had him pinned, helpless, and she had let him go. She had chosen her secret over her duty.

The self-loathing was an acid tide. She stepped out of her room, her face a carefully constructed mask of determined exhaustion. What's going on?

Mira didn't look up from her hologram. We're not waiting around. We're ending this. We're writing the song that crushes them at the Idol Awards.

It's called Takedown, Zoey said, her eyes sparkling with a fierce light. It's gonna be brutal. They won't know what hit them.

Rumi forced a nod, her throat tight. Good. That's... that's what we need. She joined them at the central table, the patterns on her arm burning beneath her sleeve. She would pour every ounce of her fury, her confusion, her self-hatred into this song. She would use it to prove, to herself most of all, that she was still on the right side.

Across the expansive living area, the mood was starkly different.

Tyler and Josh sat on a low sofa, staring out at the fractured city. They were silent, nursing glasses of water, the adrenaline of their TV triumph fully evaporated, leaving behind the stark, bizarre reality.

Josh tapped his fingers rhythmically against his knee, a quiet, complex beat. They're making a weapon, he said softly, nodding toward the focused Hunters.

Tyler followed his gaze, watching Rumi's tense shoulders, the forced set of her jaw. Yeah, he murmured. A different kind.

He thought of the raw confession of Ode to Sleep, sung to a studio audience. He thought of the chaotic power of HeavyDirtySoul that had somehow reinforced the Hunters' harmony. They had power here. Real power. But it wasn't a weapon you aimed. It was a truth you unleashed.

They see this as a war, Tyler said, his voice low. With sides. With enemies.

Josh nodded, understanding. We just see the mess.

Broken people, some so broken they may never be put back together, Tyler added.

They sat in that shared silence, two lost musicians in a tower of warriors, trying to digest a simple, terrifying truth: in a world where music was a weapon, the most powerful song might not be a battle cry, but a prayer. And they had no idea which one they were supposed to be singing.

The energy in the penthouse the next morning was a taut wire. Takedown was finished—a sharp, vicious piece of musical warfare. But to Rumi, the lyrics felt like shards of glass in her throat. Each hateful line about "rotten cores" and "patterns that show" was a mirror reflecting her own secret back at her.

During a final run-through, her voice cracked on a high note. Not from strain, but from a revulsion so deep it stole her breath.

I just... need a minute, she mumbled, avoiding their concerned looks. She retreated to her bedroom, closing the door and leaning against it, the weight of the coming performance feeling like a sentence.

The public signing was a circus of screaming fans and flashing cameras. A long table was set up, HUNTR/X on one end, the Saja Boys on the other. The air crackled with a bizarre mix of adoration and unspoken tension.

And then there were Tyler and Josh, placed awkwardly in the middle, a buffer zone of bewildered musicians. Bobby had insisted. The people love the new guys! The synergy!

Tyler stared at Josh, Dude, I think we are like the third most famous band in the world.

Josh, Wait, can we just re-release our old stuff and call it new?

Who's gonna stop us? Tyler said.

The first people in line were a group of 5 individuals, all wearing sleeping bags. More people copying Mira Rumi thought. But then, the bags unzipped, revealing the Saja Boys?

We heard about this little signing of yours! Jinu smirked.

Get another table quick! Bobby said, not wanting to anger any of the fans. And just like that, Huntr/x had lost half their fans.

No, the Saja Boys will sit with us, Rumi countered to the shock of her bandmates and Twenty One Pilots.

So there they sat, signing posters and CDs for a line of excited fans, caught in the silent war of smiles between the two idol groups and the newcomers.

Rumi's heart was a trapped bird in her chest. Every time she glanced to her right, Jinu's knowing eyes met hers. He signed a poster with a flourish, his smile never reaching his eyes, a constant, silent reminder of her failure in the park.

A young fan approached Rumi, her eyes wide with admiration. I love you so much! You're my hero!

The words were a knife twist. If you only knew. Rumi forced a smile, her hand trembling as she signed her name.

The tension escalated as fans asked for signatures from both groups on the same item. Mira and the Saja Boy called Abby ended up in a passive-aggressive fight over who got to sign a cast on a fan's leg first.

Me first! Mira insisted, her smile a grimace.

No, I'll sign first! Abby countered, his charm offensive.

Rumi watched it all, feeling sick. This was what it had all come to. Petty squabbles over autographs while the world teetered on the brink.

I thought you didn't like sharing? Jinu murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear it over the crowd's roar.

I love sharing, Rumi replied.

So you shared your secret with your friends?

I'm gonna tell them. Eventually, Rumi said, barely believing it herself. Rumi kept her smile plastered on. At least I'm not pathetic enough to serve Gwi-ma.

I'm pathetic? he whispered back. You can't even talk about your patterns.

Rage, hot and sudden, flared in her. She stomped on his foot under the table. You want me to talk about my patterns? I hate them! Just like I hate all demons! How I hate Gwi-Ma!

If hate could defeat Gwi-Ma, Jinu said, not even flinching, I would've done it a long time ago. Trust me.

A young girl shyly approached Jinu then, holding out a hand-drawn picture. Excuse me, Mr. Jinu. I made this for you.

The demon took it, looking genuinely startled for a second. Uh, for me?

Rumi saw her opening. She turned to the crowd, her voice artificially bright. Isn't he great? Woo! Jinu, everybody! Yeah, Jinu! She started a clap, forcing a celebration of the very thing she despised.

The crowd, ever eager, joined in. Jinu! Jinu!

Jinu looked from the drawing in his hand to Rumi's painfully fake smile. He understood the game. He played his part. Unfortunately, the Saja Boys have to run. Thank you, everyone.

As the crowd cheered their exit, Rumi's smile dropped. She felt hollow. She had played the perfect idol, the perfect Hunter, and it had never felt more like a lie.

She glanced at the middle of the table. Tyler was watching her, his expression unreadable. He'd seen the whole exchange. He'd heard the crowd chant a demon's name. He saw the cracks in the perfect golden facade.

He whispered something to Josh. Josh whispered back. Tyler replied again. They both nodded and quickly turned away when noticing her awareness.

Thoughts rushed to Rumi's head about what they said. Maybe they knew she was a demon. She would wake up in a cage or wouldn't wake up at all. Maybe they were going to tell all her friends about her secret. Maybe—No, Rumi could not think of the maybes. Maybe they were just talking about something else.

The signing was a success. The fans were happy. The alliance was holding.

But Rumi had never felt more like she was standing on the edge of a cliff.

Chapter Text

Something's up with Rumi, Josh. Tyler whispered.

Like what? You think she has a crush on that demon? Josh replied chuckling under his breath.

No, something more. Keep an eye on her. She needs it. Tyler finished.

They both nodded then quickly averted their gazes from her.

The silence in the penthouse after the signing was heavier than the noise had been. The forced cheer had evaporated, leaving behind the cold, hard reality of their situation. Rumi laid on her bed, watching the city lights blur into streaks of gold and pink, her reflection a ghost overlaid on the chaos.

She didn't hear Mira approach.

I could swear, earlier, you were talking to a demon.

Rumi's blood ran cold. She turned slowly. Mira was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She wasn't accusing. She was stating a fact she'd observed.

And 'Woo, Jinu'? Mira continued, her voice dry. What was that about?

Playing him up to psych him out, Rumi said, the lie automatic, brittle. Get in his head. She turned back to the window, unable to hold Mira's gaze.

Mira was silent for a long moment. The unspoken truth hung between them, thick and suffocating.

Look, Mira finally said, her voice losing its edge, replaced by a rare, frustrated concern. I'm pretty good at reading people. Actually, I'm kind of an expert at it. And I just can't shake this feeling that you're keeping something from me. She took a step into the room. Sorry. I sound nuts. I guess these demons are just getting to me. I can't wait until every one of them is destroyed and sent back to suffer with Gwi-Ma for eternity.

She paused, her next question a carefully laid trap wrapped in camaraderie.

Right, Rumi?

Rumi's heart hammered against her ribs. The image of Jinu's shocked face when he saw her patterns flashed behind her eyes. The feel of the bandage he'd wrapped around her arm. His words: You're not a monster.

Yeah, she forced out, the word ash in her mouth. Eternal suffering. Sounds fun.

Mira stared at her back for a beat longer, then turned and left without another word. The dismissal was worse than an accusation. It was a confirmation of a distance growing between them, a chasm Rumi was digging with every lie.

The second note arrived an hour later, delivered by the same blue-furred messenger, appearing on her balcony with silent inevitability. But as she raised the note to her eyes a knock came on the door.

Hi, it's Tyler. Could we talk for a second?

Rumi quickly slid the note under her pillow and draped the furry tiger with a spare sheet.

Uh sure! One second! Rumi said. Come in!

Tyler open and closed the door before walking over and assessing Rumi.

I know you are hiding something. Tyler's cadence shifted.

Rumi's heart stopped for a second. Everything was about to collapse. But Tyler continued. And while I don't know what that is, I trust you to handle it well.

The room was silent for what felt like eternity. Finally, Rumi spoke. Tyler… Do you think people can change? Like, even if they are really bad?

If everyone couldn't be redeemed, then I wouldn't stand a chance on the cosmic scale of justice. Everyone can turn around. Redemption isn't who can, it's about who chooses to.

Okay. Thank you. Rumi finished holding off her emotions.

Tyler left and Rumi locked the door behind him.

The note was right where she left it. This one was simpler.

The bridge at Namsan. Midnight. Come alone. Or don't. The choice has always been yours. - J

This time, there was no hesitation. The guilt from Mira's confrontation, the hollowness of the signing, the weight of the hateful song they had written, Tyler's adage that all can turn it around—it all propelled her out into the night.

He was waiting in the middle of the empty bridge, the city sprawling around him like a constellation of lies and truths.

You came, he said. He didn't sound surprised.

The choice has always been mine? Rumi repeated, her voice cold. You don't know anything about my choices.

I know you had a choice to kill me last night, he said, turning to face her. And you didn't. That tells me everything I need to know.

She took a step closer. Help me win the Idol Awards. Not for Gwi-Ma. For us. When we win, the Hommoon will be sealed. Permanently. Gwi-Ma will be cut off. All demons will be gone from this world. You will finally be free of these voices. And I... He looked at her arm. ...I will finally be free of these patterns. No more hiding. No more secrets.

The offer hung in the air, so terrifyingly beautiful it stole his breath. Freedom.

What makes you think the Hommoon can save a guy like me? he asked, a genuine question.

A guy who tried to help his family? Rumi countered, the words from his story coming back to her. You made a mistake, Jinu.

It's not that simple.

But I am a mistake, she whispered, the confession torn from the deepest, most hidden part of her. Have been since the moment I was born. So, I have to believe. Because if there's no hope for you, what hope is there for me?

For the first time, Jinu looked truly speechless. The manipulative demon was gone, replaced by someone just as lost as she was.

The funny thing about hope, she realized, staring at this broken, ancient boy, was that nobody else got to decide if you felt it. That choice belonged to you.

And for the first time, Rumi was making it.

Chapter Text

The vast, empty arena of the Idol Awards was a cavern of shadows and silence, making the aggressive, polished beat of Takedown sound hollow and unnerving. They were on the actual stage, running through the number under the cold, clinical light of work lamps.

Mira moved through the choreography with lethal precision, each strike of her practice blades synced perfectly to a downbeat. Zoey's voice was a weaponized sweetener, layering insults in a catchy, ascending melody.

So sweet, so easy on the eyes, but hideous on the inside!
Whole life spreading lies, but you can't hide, baby, nice try!

Rumi's voice, however, caught on the next line. It was her part, a razor-sharp rap meant to eviscerate. But the words—I see your real face! It's ugly as sin!—felt like a confession. A projection of her own deepest shame. She faltered, her footwork stuttering as the backing track rolled on without her.

The music cut off abruptly. Mira's practice blades lowered. Again, she said, her tone clipped. From the top. You're hesitating on the bridge, Rumi. This has to be flawless. This is our kill shot. Tomorrow, the entire world watches.

I know, Rumi murmured, avoiding her gaze. She wiped a sheen of sweat from her brow, her fingers brushing against the fabric of her sleek, glittering performance jacket. It's just… this song. It's so hateful. Are we sure this is the right way? To meet their poison with more poison? On this stage… it feels like we're playing right into his hands.

Zoey bounded over. But it's the truth! That's what matters! We're exposing them! It's gonna be awesome!

The truth. The phrase was a knife in Rumi's chest. She looked at her two best friends, their faces alight with righteous certainty. They saw the world in black and white: Hunters and demons. Right and wrong.

But she was living in a spectrum of terrifying grey. How could she stand on this stage and sing about "rotten cores" and "real faces" when her own was a lie? This song wasn't a weapon; it was a suicide note.

Yeah, Rumi lied, forcing a smile that felt like a crack in her facade. You're right. It's the truth. Let's… let's take a break. My throat is tight.

She turned away from them, walking to the edge of the massive stage and looking out into the sea of empty seats. The weight of the performance, the deception, the fear, was crushing. They couldn't do this. She couldn't do this.

As she stared into the darkness, a flicker of light caught her eye high above. She looked up.

There, in the artificial sky of the arena's dome, a hairline fracture of sickly pink light split the pristine, golden surface of the Hommoon. It was small, a barely perceptible crack. But it was a wound. A sign of weakening. A sign that Gwi-ma was already winning.

Her blood ran cold. The argument was over. The rehearsal was meaningless.

Mira, she said, her voice barely a whisper, but it carried in the silent arena. She pointed a trembling finger upward.

Mira and Zoey followed her gaze. The three of them stood in silence on the stage, all thoughts of the song forgotten, staring at the first crack in their world's armor. The fight wasn't tomorrow. It had already begun.

On the other side of the city, the air in the narrow alley shifted, growing cold and heavy just as the distant rumble of a train echoed from the underground station. Tyler and Josh froze, the familiar prickle of demonic energy raising the hairs on their arms. This felt different from the Saja Boys' direct menace. It was subtler, a poison seeping into the mind.

Two figures peeled from the shadows. They weren't the polished idols of the Saja Boys, but gaunt, wiry creatures with smooth, featureless faces that seemed to drink the light. They made no move to attack. They simply stood, and the assault began.

For Tyler, the world didn't go silent. It lied.

Josh's face contorted in the dim light, but not into a mask of battle-focus. It twisted with utter contempt. You really think this means anything? a voice that was Josh's, but wasn't, hissed inside Tyler's skull. Your little songs? Your 'prayers'? You're just a lost kid screaming into a void. You're going to get us both killed for nothing.

The doubt was a physical blow. It fed on every insecurity, every night spent wondering if the lyrics mattered to anyone but himself.

For Josh, the attack was a sensory overload. The city's sounds—the traffic, the distant train, Tyler's breathing—morphed into a roaring crowd of condemnation. He's just using you, the voices screamed, layered over the noise. You're just the drummer. The sidekick. Without him, you're just a guy who hits things. You're holding him back. You're dead weight here.

He clenched his fists, the urge to not fight the demons, but to turn on Tyler, bubbling up—a foreign, terrifying impulse injected directly into his psyche.

These were Gwi-ma's new soldiers. Not brutes. Saboteurs.

Tyler recoiled, the emotional venom so much more effective than a claw. But as he stumbled back, his hand brushed the wall of the alley. The rough concrete felt real. Solid. An anchor.

He focused on it, clinging to the tactile sensation against the lies in his head. Not real, he gritted out, the words a struggle. It's not him.

Across the alley, Josh was shaking his head, as if trying to dislodge the toxic whispers. He saw Tyler's pained expression and recognized it as a reflection of his own torment. The shared look was a crack in the illusion.

Josh didn't summon a hammer. He stomped his foot on the pavement. Once. Twice. A simple, solid beat. Thump. Thump.

It was their oldest language. A signal. I'm here. This is real.

The sound cut through the psychic static for Tyler. He grasped the rhythm, using it to steady himself. He didn't sing a full lyric, just a line, a truth against the lie, sung directly to his friend.

...Jumpsuit, jumpsuit, cover me...

It was a plea and a declaration. The spectral blue armor flickered over his chest, not for physical protection, but as a shield for his mind. The contempt on the illusion-Josh's face wavered.

The demons, seeing their attack falter, let out a faint hiss of frustration. Their featureless faces swiveled towards each other. The psychological warfare had failed. Now it would be a fight.

But they had already lost the element of surprise. Tyler's eyes cleared, resolve hardening. Josh cracked his neck, a familiar, determined glint returning to his eyes.

Okay, Josh said, his voice his own again. Now I'm mad.

As the two demons finally lunged forward, claws emerging from their sleeves, Tyler and Josh moved in unison, no longer victims of the mind, but warriors of the soul.

Tyler and Josh leaped in unison towards the demons, weapons drawn.

Cover me!

Chapter Text

A nest of lower-tier Geoul demons—creatures that fed on emotional dissonance and frayed tempers—had taken root in the tunnels of the Gyeongui-Jungang Line, their presence causing a spike in passenger arguments and a palpable drain on the local Hommoon frequency. A straightforward cleanse. The perfect mission to burn off the tense energy that had been thickening in the penthouse since the boys' arrival.

They descended into the late-night station, a unified front. Mira led with her usual lethal grace, Zoey buzzing with excited energy, and Rumi… Rumi followed, her golden sickle a cold, familiar weight in her hand. It felt different now. Not like an extension of her will, but like a tool she was unworthy to hold.

The train was mostly empty, a ghost car rattling through the dark veins of the city. They found the infestation in the last car. Three Geoul demons, their forms shifting and indistinct, like heat haze over asphalt, were latched onto a sleeping businessman, feeding on his latent stress.

Standard formation, Mira whispered, her twin blades already glinting in the low light. Zoey, disrupt. Rumi, contain. I'll purge.

But as Zoey's energized knuckles crackled to life and Mira lunged, Rumi hesitated. She saw the way the demon’s form flickered, a brief flash of something terrified and trapped within the corrosive energy. It wasn't just a monster; it was a prisoner of its own nature, just like—

Rumi, now! Mira's command was sharp, a whip-crack in the confined space.

Rumi moved on instinct, her sickle flashing out. But instead of a killing arc, she used the flat of the blade, creating a resonant, holding field of golden light around one of the creatures. It shrieked, not in pain, but in confusion, trapped by a harmony it couldn't comprehend.

The fight was swift and brutal. Mira was a whirlwind of efficiency, her blades dissolving two of the demons into harmless shadow. Zoey zapped the third into a stunned state, ready for the final blow.

But Rumi just stood there, holding her captive demon in its gilded cage. It pulsed against the energy, and for a split second, she didn't see a monster. She saw Jinu’s eyes when he’d spoken of his family. She saw the patterns on her own arm. She saw a thing that had never been given a choice.

Rumi, what are you doing? Zoey asked, her head tilted. Finish it.

Maybe… maybe we don't have to, Rumi heard herself say, her voice distant. Maybe we can… I don't know. Rehabilitate it? The word sounded absurd even as she said it.

Mira froze, turning to stare at her as if she’d just suggested they adopt a pet scorpion. Rehabilitate it? The disdain in her voice was a physical blow. It's a demon, Rumi. It doesn't want a therapist; it wants your soul. Now, cease this hesitation and complete the mission.

The Geoul demon, sensing her conflict, pressed against the light, its form shifting into a pathetic, whimpering shape. A trick. She knew it was a trick. But the part of her that was beginning to believe in her own monstrousness felt a twisted pang of sympathy.

Rumi, Mira's voice dropped, low and dangerous. Stand. Down.

In that moment, the distance between them wasn't just tactical; it was a chasm. Rumi was on one side, staring into the abyss of a demon's eyes and seeing a reflection. Mira and Zoey were on the other, certain in their purpose, their truth. Rumi was no longer one of them. She was something else. Something uncertain. Something dangerous.

Her focus broke. The golden cage flickered and died.

The Geoul demon didn't attack. It simply vanished, melting back into the shadows of the train with a sound like a sigh, escaping to feed another day.

The car was silent save for the rumble of the tracks. Mira slowly sheathed her blades, her eyes never leaving Rumi. The look wasn't just anger; it was a profound, chilling disappointment.

You let it go, Mira stated, her voice flat and final.

I… I thought… Rumi stammered, but there were no words. There was only the crushing weight of her doubt and the devastating clarity in Mira's eyes.

Let's go, Mira said, turning her back on Rumi. The mission is compromised.

Zoey looked between them, her usual brightness dimmed by confusion and concern. Rumi? Are you okay?

But Rumi couldn't answer. She just stood there, alone in the middle of the empty train car, as it carried her further and further away from the women who were her family, and closer to a truth that threatened to unravel everything she was. The fight was over. But her real battle had just begun.

Chapter Text

The train doors hissed shut, sealing Rumi in the silent, empty car with the ghost of Mira’s final, cold words. The fluorescent lights flickered, strobing across her face, each flash a snapshot of her isolation. She sank onto a hard plastic seat, the adrenaline of the failed mission leaching away to leave a cold, hollow dread in its place. The fight was over, but the battle within her was a roaring tempest.

Every rattle of the tracks, every hum of the machinery beneath the car, seemed to chant it: Failure. Traitor. Demon.

She couldn’t go back. The thought of the penthouse—of Zoey’s confused, hurt eyes, of Mira’s rigid, disapproving silence, of the glittering performance outfits that felt like costumes for a lie—made her stomach clench. The crack she’d seen in the Hommoon wasn't just a flaw in their celestial shield; it was a fissure in the very foundation of her identity, and it was widening inside her with every passing second.

The train emptied out at the next stop, leaving her utterly alone in the harsh light of the carriage. She was a statue of indecision, frozen until the automated voice announced her home station. Her feet carried her off the train, up the escalator, and into the cool night air on autopilot. The vibrant, noisy streets of Seoul felt like a film set, the people around her mere extras in a play where she had forgotten her lines.

The climb to the penthouse was an ascent to a gallows. She slipped inside, the door sighing shut behind her with a sound of finality. The main living area was dark and quiet; the others weren’t back yet. The silence was a physical pressure. She retreated to her room, locking the door and leaning against it, her chest heaving with unshed tears of frustration and shame.

It was then, as her eyes adjusted to the dim light from the window, that she saw it.

A single, impossibly blue feather rested on the center of her immaculate bedsheet. It was vibrant, almost iridescent, and looked utterly alien against the white linen. Tied to its base with a fine, silken black thread was a small, neatly folded square of heavy, expensive paper.

Her breath hitched. Her first instinct was Hunter-trained: destroy it. It was a trap, a trick, a demon’s lure. But her second instinct, the one that had been growing like a weed in the dark corners of her soul, was one of desperate curiosity.

Her hands, which could summon a weapon of pure light, trembled as she untied the thread and unfolded the note. The handwriting was the same elegant, precise script from before, each character meticulously formed.

The city’s neon is a beautiful lie. The truth has a quieter glow. Meet me where the past is preserved, not forgotten. The vintage neon of Haebangchon’s old cinema district, above the noise. I’ll be waiting under the sign for ‘Eternal Sunshine.’ - J

Haebangchon. The old "Liberation Village" built into the hillside, a labyrinth of steep, winding streets frozen in a retro, almost nostalgic time warp, perched above the modern glitter of Itaewon. It was a place of quiet cafes, vintage vinyl shops, and old movie theaters with fading marquees. A place far from the sleek, high-tech world of HUNTR/X.

The decision wasn't a conscious one. It was a gravitational pull. Moving with a silence that was her only remaining skill, she changed out of her tactical gear into simple, dark clothing—a hoodie and jeans. She didn't leave a note. She was a ghost slipping out of her own life.

The journey felt both endless and instantaneous. A short subway ride, then the long, arduous climb up the steep, narrow alleys of Haebangchon. The air changed, growing cooler, smelling of old wood, fried street food, and mossy stone instead of exhaust and ambition. Colored paper lanterns glowed softly, and the sounds of the main city became a distant, muffled hum far below. It was like climbing into a forgotten memory.

And then she saw it. At the top of a particularly quiet street, a classic old cinema, its art deco facade worn but proud. The marquee, spelled out in once-bright yellow bulbs, read: ETERNAL SUNSHINE. Most of the bulbs were dark, but a few still glowed with a soft, persistent warmth.

And under that gentle, vintage glow, he was waiting.

Leaning against the poster case, which displayed a faded film from decades past, Jinu looked unlike himself. Out of his idol uniform, in a simple, dark jacket, he seemed smaller. Softer. He wasn't looking at her, but up at the few glowing bulbs of the sign, his face illuminated in patches of warm light and deep shadow. He looked… pensive. Real.

He didn't turn as she approached, her sneakers silent on the cobblestones. The only sound was the faint buzz of the old neon.

I thought you might appreciate a different kind of stage, he said, his voice quiet, stripped of its usual theatrical mockery. It was just a voice, tired and human. One with less… glitter. And fewer lies.

Rumi stopped a few feet away, the retrofitted, quiet world feeling both alien and strangely comforting. The tension between them was still there, a live wire, but it was different here. It wasn't the tension of imminent combat, but of two secrets meeting in a place that honored the past.

Work with me and we can be free, Rumi said.

All the rehearsed accusations, the anger, the fear, died in Jinu’s throat. There was only one question, the core of everything, that mattered.

You meant it? he asked, the words costing him everything. The Hommoon… if we win… it would free us both?

It's the only thing that can, she said.

The hope was a terrifying, fragile thing in their chests. It felt like betrayal. It felt like salvation.

From a small speaker on the ground, a soft, simple melody began to play. Full of longing.

Rumi began to sing, the lyrics weaving around her, speaking the truth of her own silenced voice. Her voice was tentative at first, then stronger, weaving with his in a harmony that felt destined.

"I tried to hide, but something broke. I tried to sing. Couldn't hit the notes. The words kept catching in my throat..."

Jinu joined in, his voice low and stripped of all its demonic allure, just raw and painfully human.

"I tried to smile. I was suffocating though, but here with you I can finally breathe. You say you're no good, but you're good for me..."

They weren't performing. They were confessing. To each other. To the night. Each line was a layer of armor falling away. The city lights below seemed to blur into a sea of gold, a mirror of the Hommoon they both desperately wanted to believe in.

They reached the chorus together, their voices lifting, no longer a plea but a declaration.

"Why does it feel right every time I let you in? Why does it feel like I can tell you anything?"

As the final notes of the song faded, they stood in a silence that was no longer tense, but peaceful. Shared. Understood.

For a moment, high above Seoul, with the sound of a ridiculous late-night show echoing faintly from apartments around them, a Hunter and a demon were not enemies. They were just two heavy, dirty souls, singing about being free. And for the first time, believing it might just be possible.

Chapter Text

The moment Jinu stepped out of the nostalgic glow of Haebangchon, the world twisted. The colorful lanterns and quiet streets dissolved into a vortex of screaming shadows. An invisible, agonizing hook lodged itself in his very core and yanked.

He was pulled through layers of reality, the journey a nauseating slide into heat and pressure, before being thrown onto a familiar, scorched plain of black rock. The air was thick with the smell of ash and despair. Before him, in the heart of this desolate underworld, roared the massive, sentient inferno that was Gwi-ma. He was not a man, not a demon king, but a conflagration of pure, ancient malice—a whirlwind of flame and shadow that wore a crown of screaming faces.

"YOU THINK TO PLAY AT REDEMPTION?" The voice was not a sound but a pressure, a heat that blistered Jinu's skin and seared his mind. "YOU, WHO BELONGS TO ME? YOU, WHOSE SOUL I OWN?"

A tendril of fire lashed out, wrapping around Jinu's throat, not to choke, but to brand. To remind. The pain was exquisite, a cleansing fire that burned away the fleeting humanity he’d almost felt under the cinema lights.

"THAT GIRL OFFERS HOPE TO YOU? YOU SPEAK OF FREEDOM?" Gwi-ma’s laughter was the crackling of a forest being consumed. "THERE IS NO FREEDOM FROM ME. ONLY SERVICE. OR OBLIVION. YOUR LITTLE PERFORMANCE TONIGHT HAS EARNED YOU A REMINDER OF YOUR PLACE."

The flames tightened, and Jinu’s back arched in silent agony. He had overstepped. He had dared to feel, and for that, he would be reforged in the master’s fire. The boy who longed for the sun was dragged back into the heart of the furnace.

Rumi returned to the penthouse as the first hints of dawn tinged the sky. The climb up the mountain of her shame felt steeper than the climb to Haebangchon. The silence of the penthouse was absolute. She went straight to her room, avoiding her reflection until she stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, the waking city sprawled below.

She saw the girl reflected in the glass. Not the global superstar, not the flawless Hunter. Just a girl with tired eyes and patterns on her skin that glowed faintly with a light that was neither purely golden nor demonic purple, but something in between. Something new.

As she stared at her reflection, she pondered. Maybe redemption wasn't about becoming pure. Maybe it wasn't about erasing the patterns or being accepted back into the golden light with open arms. Maybe it was. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was the Idol Awards that night.

The first grey light of dawn filtered through the penthouse’s wall of windows, painting the luxurious living room in shades of silver and shadow. The smell of cheap instant coffee cut through the quiet. Tyler was already up, perched on the arm of the expensive white sofa he’d used as a bed, a steaming mug in his hands. He stared out at the waking city, the fractured Hommoon still visible, a fading scar against the brightening sky. Tonight, it would all come to a head. The Idol Awards. The plan. The end of something.

Josh joined him, yawning, his own mug in hand. He nudged a discarded blanket with his foot. You know, for saving the world tonight, we get pretty crummy sleeping arrangements.

A faint smile touched Tyler’s lips but didn’t reach his eyes. Dress rehearsal for martyrdom, he said, the joke falling flat. He took a sip, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Just thinking about home. About free will. About tonight.

Heavy topics for before coffee, Josh mumbled into his mug, but his usual levity was forced. The unspoken fear of the coming night hung between them.

Isn’t it all? Tyler sighed, setting his coffee down. He reached for the one thing that felt truly theirs: a beat-up ukulele they’d found tucked away in a closet. He strummed a few quiet, searching chords, the sound soft and intimate in the vast, quiet room. Back home, we talk about… a plan. A purpose. But it’s a purpose that gives you a choice. You can say yes. You can say no. The story goes on, but your path is your own. What if we chose wrong? What if we say yes tonight and… that’s it?

His fingers found a melancholic progression, and his voice, still rough with sleep, was a hushed, raw thing that seemed to speak directly to the fear in the room.

"I wonder where you are," he sang, barely above a whisper.
"I wanted you to show me
The way around those city walls
The way on through..."

He wasn’t just singing about a place or a guide. He was singing about the path home, now shrouded in the fog of a war they never asked for.

"I wonder where you are," he repeated, the ache palpable.
"I wanted you to show me
But now the night has fallen
Abandoned by the sun..."

The last note hung in the air, a quiet admission of feeling lost and utterly alone on the eve of battle. He let the ukulele rest against his knee.

He finally looked at Josh, and the fear was right there, naked in his eyes. What if we never get back, Josh? What if this is it? This couch, this city, this war… forever?

Josh put his mug down, the clink sounding abnormally loud. He was silent for a long moment, the weight of the question pressing down. He looked from the luxurious room that wasn’t theirs to his best friend’s terrified face.

Then I guess it’s our burden, Josh said, his voice low but clear, the fear hardening into a grim resolve. We didn’t choose it. But it’s here. In our hands. And if nobody else can carry it… He met Tyler’s gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. The understanding that some calls aren’t about wanting to answer, but about being the only one who can.

Tyler looked down at his hands, the hands that held a ukulele one moment and a sword of light the next. The weight of it felt immense, a crushing responsibility for a world he never made. A world where he would always be a stranger, a tourist holding a weapon he barely understood.

The greater good, he whispered, the phrase tasting like ash. It means we might have to stay here. In this… beautiful, broken world that isn’t ours. His voice cracked. It means my mom never knows what happened to me. It means we never play a show for our friends again. It means we never see our wives again. It means everything we were… just ends. Here. On this couch. The doubt was a tidal wave, threatening to drown the fragile resolve. How is that good! How is that a plan!

He was silent for a long moment, the struggle plain on his face. Faith wasn't a steady flame; it was a flickering candle in a hurricane. It was choosing to light it again, even when the wind howled that it was pointless.

He picked up the ukulele again, not to play a melody, but to claw out a rhythm. A desperate, pounding, repetitive strum. His eyes were closed, not in peace, but in a fierce, internal war. When he sang, it wasn't a clean, declarative prayer. It was a raw, broken, and final plea—a last line thrown across the void, demanding an answer he wasn't sure would ever come.

His voice was a strained, quiet thing, yet it filled the entire room.

"Entertain my, entertain my
Entertain my, entertain my faith…"

Each repetition was a hammer strike on his own doubt, a demand for a sign, for a reason to believe this unbearable burden was worth it.

"This is the last time, this is the last time…
Entertain my faith…
This is the last time that I try…"

It was a surrender and a stand, all at once. The admission that his faith was hanging by a thread, that he was at the very end of his own strength.

"Address my soul, address my soul, address my soul…
Entertain my faith…
This is the last time that I try…"

The final words faded into the morning light, leaving only the echo of the desperate strumming and the heavy silence that followed. He had laid his struggle bare. There was nothing else to say. The choice was made. He would try, one last time. Even if it cost him everything.

Chapter Text

The Idol Awards host beamed at the camera, his smile a blinding white. "And what an incredible opening performance from our special guests, Twenty One Pilots! While they aren't eligible for nomination due to their late entry, let's give them another huge round of applause for kicking off our show with such... explosive energy!"

The performance had been a raw, defiant statement. As the lights had dimmed for their set, Tyler's voice had cut through the anticipatory chatter, not with a scream, but with a vow that felt strangely specific, almost prophetic in the glittering arena.

"When everyone you thought you knew deserts your fight... I'll go with you."

He sang the words with a quiet intensity, his gaze seeming to sweep over the backstage shadows where the other performers waited. Josh's drumming was a steady, protective heartbeat beneath the declaration.

"You're facin' down a dark hall... I'll grab my light and go with you."

The refrain was a mantra, repeated not as a plea, but as a fact. "I'll go with you." It was a song about unwavering loyalty in the face of abandonment. As they launched into the chorus, the message felt less like a lyric and more like a shield being offered to someone, somewhere in the building, before the battle had even begun.

"Stay with me, my blood, you don't need to run."

The final notes hung in the air, a quiet promise that seemed to echo long after the music stopped, leaving a peculiar, charged stillness in its wake.

Tyler and Josh walked towards their VIP Box.

Tyler took a deep breath.Hey. No matter what happens in there...

Josh finished the thought, an old tour mantra. ...we walk out together.

From their position, they watched the next spectacle unfold, the unease from their own performance lingering.

Down on the main stage, HUNTR/X was in their element. They were performing Golden, and Rumi was flawless. Her voice was strong, clear, filled with a hope that felt both genuine and heartbreakingly fragile. She swung on a glittering ring over the crowd, a golden goddess in complete command.

She's killing it, Josh murmured, impressed despite himself.

Yeah, Tyler agreed, but the knot of unease from their own set only tightened in his stomach. Something felt off. The energy was too sharp, too brittle, like a glass sphere about to crack.

Then, it happened.

The music cut.

The lights died, plunging the massive arena into a heart-stopping silence. For a split second, there was confusion. Then, a new, familiar, and brutally distorted beat kicked in. It was Takedown. But it was wrong. It was heavier, angrier, laced with a mocking, metallic edge.

A spotlight hit Rumi, frozen in the center of the stage. The first lyrics boomed through the speakers, but it wasn't her voice.

It was a twisted, demonic mimicry of Mira's and Zoey's vocals, layered together into a venomous snarl.

"So sweet, so easy on the eyes, but hideous on the inside!"

Rumi flinched as if struck. Zoey? Mira? she whispered into the dead mic, her voice lost in the monstrous track.

"Whole life spreading lies, but you can't hide, baby, nice try!"

The crowd, initially shocked, began to murmur, then cheer. They thought it was a dramatic new intro. A stunt.

Up in the box, Tyler and Josh shot to their feet. That's not them, Tyler said, his blood running cold. That's not the song.

On stage, Rumi was backing away, her eyes wide with dawning horror. Demonic illusions of Mira and Zoey stalked out of the shadows, their faces cruel parodies of her friends.

"I'm about to switch up these vibes. I finally opened my eyes. It's time to kick you straight back into the night!"

The illusions pointed at her, their voices a symphony of hatred.

"Cause I see your real face! It's ugly as sin! Makes hatred wanna grow out of my veins!"

No! Stop! Rumi pleaded, holding her hands up as the illusions advanced. She stumbled, and her glittering jacket was torn from her shoulders by an unseen force.

The crowd's cheers turned to confused shouts. This was too real.

Tyler was already moving, shoving his way out of the box, Josh right behind him. They had to get to her.

But they were too late. The illusions closed in, their voices dropping to a vicious whisper that carried through the entire arena.

"We see what you are." (Mira's voice, cold and disgusted) "You're a demon." (Zoey's voice, dripping with false pity) Both: "A mistake."

Rumi shook her head, tears streaming down her face. No!

Both: "You have been since the day you were born."

With a shattered scream that was more pain than sound, Rumi cried, "NOOOOOO!"

The stage lights exploded in a shower of glass and sparks. When the spots readjusted, the illusions were gone. And there stood Rumi, center stage, panting, exposed.

The patterns were no longer just on her arms. They glowed a furious, vibrant purple, covering her back, her chest, crawling up her neck like luminous vines. The mark of her demonic blood was on display for the entire world to see.

The arena fell into a dead, horrified silence.

And then Mira and Zoey themselves finally burst onto the stage from the wings, their faces masks of confusion and concern. Rumi! What hap—

They stopped. They saw her. They saw the patterns glowing for all to see.

Rumi looked at them, her eyes begging. What? How are you here? You were just… That wasn't you? Oh. Oh, thank goodness. The relief was pathetic, short-lived.

She followed their horrified gazes downward, to her own glowing skin. The reality of her exposure crashed down.

No. No! No. No. She scrambled back, trying to cover herself, her composure utterly shattered. These were supposed to be gone. You were never supposed to see!

Mira found her voice first, it was cold, hard with betrayal. You were hiding this from us this whole time?

It was Jinu! He was supposed to— I- He was— Rumi was babbling, desperate.

Jinu? Zoey’s voice was small, hurt. You're working with him?

No! No! No! I was using him to fix all this! To fix me! So we could all do our duty! We could all be strong. Be together.

Zoey’s face crumpled. How could we be together if we can't tell your lies from your truths, Rumi?

Mira’s expression was one of grim, final understanding. I knew it. I knew it was too good to be true.

Rumi pleaded, her voice breaking. Mira, no! Didn't you see? See the gold? We're so close! No! Don't leave! Don't leave! I can still FIX IT!!

A massive pink wave of raw, panicked energy erupted from her, washing over the entire arena. It was the sound of a heart breaking at the frequency of the apocalypse.

When it faded, Mira had her weapon pointed at Rumi. Zoey, sobbing, did the same.

Rumi looked at the blades of her best friends, her family. [tearfully] Zoey, please.

Realizing they had truly turned on her, that her worst fear had come to pass, she turned and fled, a flash of purple and gold, disappearing into the backstage darkness.

The last thing the live broadcast saw was Mira and Zoey, lowering their weapons, their faces etched with immediate regret and world-shattering shock.

The Idol Awards were over. HUNTR/X was broken. And the Hommoon, above them all, began to violently, visibly shatter.

In the chaos, no one noticed Tyler and Josh, frozen in a hallway, having witnessed the entire devastating fall. The battle wasn't against demons on a stage anymore. It was for the soul of their friend. And they had no idea how to fight it.

The silence backstage was heavier than the noise of the shattered arena. Tyler and Josh stood frozen in a dimly lit corridor, the echoes of Rumi’s shattered scream still ringing in their ears. They began to move toward the stage, but a flicker of movement in a side hallway made them pause.

They saw her first. Rumi, her back to them, facing Jinu. Her voice was a raw, desperate whisper.

Say you didn't do this.

Jinu said nothing. He simply snapped his fingers.

Two figures emerged from the shadows behind him—the exact duplicates of Mira and Zoey that had just tormented her on stage. They grinned, their faces twisting, before shimmering and dissolving back into the forms of the two Oni who had played them. They gave a final, mocking bow to Rumi before vanishing completely.

The confirmation was absolute. It was all a lie.

How could you do this?! Rumi’s voice was a broken thing. She shoved him, but he didn't even budge.

Jinu’s POV:
The act was over. The charming, conflicted demon was gone, replaced by the ancient, bitter creature beneath. It was all a lie, he stated, his voice cold and flat.

It was real! What we had was real. I know it was! she cried.

The things I said? I just needed you to trust me. That's all. The words were delivered with a clinical precision designed to inflict maximum pain.

No! No, I know your story. You were a good person, and you still are. You just made a mistake.

That was the final straw. The last vestige of his performance shattered. "I LEFT THEM!!" he roared, the sound echoing in the confined space. "That's right, I lied to you. I only made a deal with Gwi-Ma to get myself out of that miserable life. I left my sister, my mother, alone while I slept on silk sheets in the palace with my belly full every night! I left them. I left them."

Rumi was speechless, reeling from the venomous truth.

"But that's not all you are," she pleaded, trying to salvage the person she thought he was. "This is just your demon talking. You have to fight it!"

"THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS!" he screamed back, his face a mask of furious despair.

"YES, IT IS!"

"LISTEN TO YOURSELF. IS IT WORKING?" he spat. "You're a demon, just like me. All we get to do is live with our pain, our misery. That's all we deserve."

He left her then, with those final, devastating words hanging in the air. She stood there, completely broken, the glow of her patterns the only light on her shattered form.

Chapter Text

It was only after Jinu had vanished that Tyler and Josh, who had witnessed the entire brutal exchange, finally moved.

They found her curled in a dark corner behind a rack of discarded set pieces, knees pulled to her chest. She was shaking, her whole body wracked with silent, hopeless sobs. The purple patterns glowed faintly against her skin, a testament to the shame that had just been weaponized against her.

They didn't approach her like warriors. They simply sat down on the concrete floor a few feet away.

Tyler didn't offer empty platitudes. His voice was low and steady. Everyone's got a broken piece. Everyone. Some people are just better at hiding it. Doesn't make the piece any less broken. Just makes 'em more alone with it.

Josh's tone was gentle. The world saw something you tried to hide. That's... that's a terrifying thing. But seeing the broken piece... that's not the end of the story.

It's just the part that makes you real, Tyler finished.

They didn't touch her. They didn't quote scripture. They just sat in the darkness with her, their presence a quiet testament to a simple, radical idea: that a person was not defined by the lies told about them, or by their darkest secret, and that they were not alone in their brokenness.

Back in the penthouse, the fight had gone out of them, leaving behind a hollow, echoing silence. The argument had been short, brutal, and ultimately pointless.

What do we even do now? Zoey had asked, her voice small, huddled on the edge of the sofa as if trying to take up as little space as possible.

What is there to do? Mira’s response wasn't sharp. It was flat, drained. She stood by the window, not as a vigilant sentinel, but as someone looking out at a world that had become too heavy to bear. The demonic whispers, fed by the fractured Hommoon, didn't need to scream; they murmured, confirming her deepest exhaustion. What's the use? You were never enough to protect her. You can't fix this. The fight is already over, and you lost.

She's one of them, Zoey, Mira said, the words devoid of their earlier accusation, now just a statement of bleak fact. Or close enough that it doesn't matter. Everything we fought for... it was a lie she was living. How do we come back from that?

Zoey had no answer. The optimistic core of her had been shattered. The voice in her mind was no longer about being "too much," but about being nothing. You built your whole world on a family that wasn't real. Your joy was just noise to cover the silence. You don't belong here. You never did.

Mira didn't move to get a weapon. She just... let go. The tension drained from her shoulders, her posture slumping. The mission, the duty, the constant war—it all felt like a performance she was too tired to keep up. I'm going to my room, she said, the words barely audible. Just... leave me alone.

She didn't slam the door. It sighed shut, a sound of surrender.

Left alone in the vast, silent space, Zoey felt the emptiness press in on her. The penthouse wasn't a headquarters anymore; it was a tomb for a dead dream. Every laugh they'd shared, every plan they'd made, now felt like a relic from someone else's life. The cheerful, vibrant colors of the decor seemed to mock her.

The music reached her then, not as a blaring siren, but as a soft, melancholic pull. It drifted from the direction of Namsan Tower, a slow, hypnotic ballad that promised numbness. It didn't promise joy or belonging—it promised an end to the pain. It promised to quiet the voices, to fill the hollow space with a gentle, accepting static where nothing hurt anymore.

She didn't run. There was no urgency left. She stood up, moving like a ghost through the room, and walked out the door. She wasn't chasing a purpose. She was retreating from a life that had become unbearable.

In her room, Mira didn't pace or plan. She sat on the floor, back against her bed, and stared at the wall. The pull from Namsan Tower was a low thrum in her bones, a seductive invitation to lay down her burdens. To let someone else be in control. To stop fighting a war she was clearly losing. The thought wasn't exciting. It was just... easy. And she was so, so tired of it being hard. With a sigh that came from the depths of her soul, she pushed herself to her feet. Not as a warrior, but as a refugee. She followed the sound, not to fight, but to surrender.

The air at the base of Namsan Tower was thick and strangely calm. The Saja Boys were no longer performing a high-energy routine. They stood in a line, singing a slow, beautiful, heart-wrenching ballad about the relief of letting go. The massive crowd was silent, mesmerized, their faces slack with a peaceful apathy. They weren't frenzied fans; they were souls being gently anesthetized.

Mira and Zoey arrived from different directions, not meeting each other's eyes. They simply found spaces in the crowd and stood there, their shoulders slumping as the music washed over them, soothing the ragged edges of their despair. They weren't there to make a stand. They were there to give up. And in the haunting, beautiful silence of the song, it felt like the most logical choice they had ever made.