Chapter Text
Rumi couldn’t wait to return to the peace and quiet of the forests around her Jeju Island home. She knew she had to get used to the city at some point if she was going to be an Idol and a Hunter. But the streets of Seoul were loud and smelly and chaotic and no one said she had to get used to it immediately. Even here in their private car, she could tell it would be an assault to her introverted, half-demon senses. They were currently stuck in traffic, their driver angrily shouting at someone. She couldn’t quite make it out through the glass privacy screen, but it didn’t look like it was at any one person and more at the situation in general. Celine wasn’t fazed at all, taking the time to get some work done on a tablet. Rumi let out a small huff in frustration, causing her guardian to peer over the brim of her rectangular reading glasses.
“We’ll be at the hotel soon, Rumi,” she promised, her face softening when she spotted the teenager’s discomfort.
“We’ve been stuck in traffic for twenty minutes now,” Rumi pointed out.
“That’s the city for you,” Celine sighed, “Once we’re checked in, we’ll grab some food. We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”
Rumi nodded diligently. “Yes, Celine,” she replied.
She internally winced when she thought about tomorrow. Usually, the Honmoon would have linked its Hunters together by now. Or at the very least, began sending out signals for them to find each other. Celine was growing impatient - and rightfully so. She and Rumi had been doing their best on their own as Hunters, but without an ability to strengthen the Honmoon by bringing people together through song, it was only a matter of time before they become overwhelmed.
About a month ago, they had a close call with a horde that left Celine with permanent nerve damage in her right arm. Nothing too severe, but it was hard for her to hold a weapon which was a problem since she specialized in dual blades. That was the final push, and she decided that if she couldn’t force fate, she may be able to encourage it. And so she organized a tryout of sorts: an audition for artists to show off their skills to Sunlight Entertainment, but with the added agenda of trying to find the other two Hunters to join Rumi.
Rumi’s job was just to observe. The connection will only be detectable to her, and the best Celine could tell her was that she would know. So she was just to sit in on the auditions and see if any of the performers “clicked” so to speak.
Even so, it left Rumi uneasy. She was more than aware of the optics of her coming here with Celine. What with her mother being a famous pop star, and Celine also a famous pop-star-turned-CEO, she had might as well just wear a name tag with “Nepo Baby” written on it. It felt like everything people saw in her belonged to someone else, like they judged before even knowing her.
She glanced out the window again. They had crept forward a little, and were now waiting at an intersection for the light. That’s when she saw her.
The girl in question wore baggy, grungy clothes and ratty old sneakers she somehow still made look amazing. Punk-style earrings adorned one ear and she had a chunky, studded belt loosely around her waist. A backwards trucker hat tamed back fiery pink hair. Round crooked glasses sat on her nose, offering only a brief glimpse at eyes sharp as flint. And she was dancing. A small crowd of people surrounded her, a cheap bluetooth speaker connected to a phone blasting out some generic Kpop sat next to a second hat turned upside down on the sidewalk. A small child toddled over and dropped in a coin, earning her an extra special couple of dance moves that made the child giggle.
Rumi blinked in amazement, her heart fluttering with something. This girl… She was beautiful and amazing and talented… Could…could she be…
The light changed, and they got moving. Finally. Celine let out a sigh of relief and set her tablet down. She removed her glasses, noticing Rumi craning her neck to keep her eyes on the pink-haired girl for as long as possible. “Is everything alright?” she asked.
Rumi settled back into her seat once the girl was gone. “Y…yeah,” she stammered. Was that it? The connection? Or…did she just find the girl hot? She was incredibly attractive…
She shook her head, dispelling the thoughts. If it was meant to be, she’ll see the pink-haired girl again.
— — —
Mira sorted through the meagre collection of coins in her hat. It was a pathetic pittance, but enough for a vending machine meal. A hard day’s work…and that was all she had to show for it.
She could practically hear her father’s condescension as she stood before a street vending machine, deciding which bag of chips to get. “Tell me again how dancing was going to earn a living?”
Or her mother’s snide voice, silently judging from on high as she keyed in the numbers for a bag of spicy shrimp chips. “No roof over your head. Trash for dinner. I’d say you bring shame upon the family name, but it doesn’t belong to you anymore, does it?”
Mira tried to force the voices from her head. She was tired and hungry - she didn’t need the snark from disembodied asshole parents making her feel even worse about herself.
She had been out here for a couple of months now. Ever since that night: one where Mira had snuck out to go to a party, met an admittedly nice enough girl, and gotten just tipsy enough to experience her first kiss. With a woman. And some asshole interns who worked at her father’s company happened to be there and snapped a photo. When Mira returned home, her parents were livid. Her mother wouldn’t stop shrieking about impropriety and shaming the family name, while her father angrily threatened to send her away to some child prison— boarding school. And Mira, fed up after fourteen years of putting up with their bullshit, stood up for herself. And the girl she kissed. And gays everywhere.
And it got her kicked out. Thoroughly excommunicated. She’s almost certain she has been scrubbed from all family records, her image edited out of photos, and her name forbidden from ever being spoken. She hadn’t been allowed to pack a bag - was only allowed the clothes she had on her back. Anything that had been hers - photos, artwork, CDs, clothes, jewelry, books - was all likely ash by now.
She sold most of the jewelry she had to gain enough money to buy a couple new pairs of clothes and a bluetooth speaker. She had managed to keep her phone, but she ripped out the old SIM card and tossed it. She didn’t need her father tracking her. Same went for her credit cards. She tried to draw money out of an ATM but even only a half hour after leaving their gated property, she had already been cut off.
She slept in a shelter the first few nights. Well, “slept” is a loose term. She then found a quiet bench in a park that was off the main path. Then it was in a train station. She actually managed a few nights there - she didn’t look immediately homeless at first, and then she thinks the nightwatchman took pity on her. But eventually she had to leave, and her existence became defined by where she could safely spend a night, and how she would get food the next day.
Dancing had been the answer to that, performing choreography of her own design to music spilling out of a shitty bluetooth speaker. She had to change her location every day since she didn’t exactly have a permit. Some days - especially in busy, tourist-filled areas - she would earn enough to actually be able to afford something from a convenience store. But then other days were like today: only enough to force her to choose between shrimp chips or a candy bar as her dinner.
The vending machine whirred to life, and the bag slowly inched forward along the coil. Then it stopped, the bag teetering on the edge but still held in place.
She stared at it for a moment, her tired brain struggling to process the problem. “Seriously?” she hissed, punching the side of the machine. The bag jumped in its housing, but not enough to come free.
Mira growled in frustration. Her stomach growled even louder. She punched the machine again. Then kicked it. Then tried to shake it loose. Nothing seemed to work. She debated trying to stick her hand in but it was up too high and she didn’t feel like getting her hand caught. “FUCK!” she shouted. She slammed her fist against the glass one more time, her whole body collapsing against it. The surface was cold against the skin of her forehead, the temptation of all that food just right there behind such easily breakable material…
So. This was where she ended up. Seriously considering crime to survive. Oh her parents must be loving this.
She was so consumed by her downward spiral that she almost didn’t hear the sound of someone awkwardly clearing their throat.
“Um…hi.”
Mira remained where she was, leaning heavily against the vending machine and wallowing in a mire of self-loathing and misery. And hunger. She only shifted her gaze, looking over her shoulder to spot whoever was brave and dumb enough to talk to her.
She started to seethe immediately. The girl in question was a little shorter than her, pretty and slim with perfect skin. Her long hair was dyed a rich, royal purple and braided in a well-crafted dragon braid from her hair line all the way to the small of her back. As if physical looks weren’t enough of a giveaway, Mira could see her sweater was real cashmere, her boots were designer, and touches of jewelry weren’t just basic finds from a mall. Mira knew the type immediately: rich girl, probably used to getting her way and whatever kindness she shows is only skin deep. Her weird smile was proof of that, likely fake and rusty from lack of use. Mira wasn’t in the mood to deal with it right now. “Fuck off. Go find another machine,” she snarled.
The girl didn’t leave. She remained where she was, her smile slowly faltering, and anxiously shifted from one foot to the other. “Actually, I… I saw what happened and I…I want to help.”