Chapter Text
The neon lights of Seoul still shimmered outside the wide glass windows of the restaurant, a cozy late-night spot tucked between a bakery and an all-night record store. Inside, the aroma of sizzling meat and spicy stew hung in the air. The girls of HUNTR/X—Rumi, Mira, and Zoey—sat squeezed into a booth, laughter bubbling from their corner of the room. Bobby sat at the edge, already halfway through a plate of tteokbokki.
“Tell me that wasn’t our best show yet,” Zoey grinned, tossing her hair over one shoulder. She was still glowing from the stage—eyeliner a little smudged, mic pack marks still faintly on her back.
“Zo, you almost tripped on your own speaker wire during your verse,” Mira said, jabbing a chopstick in her direction.
“I recovered like a pro.” Zoey pointed at herself proudly, then added, “Crowd didn’t even notice.”
“They did when you screamed ‘I meant to do that!’ into the mic,” Bobby muttered through a mouthful, grinning.
Rumi let out a small laugh, resting her elbow on the table. Her dark purple jacket, slightly oversized, covered the black spirit-weave outfit she still hadn’t fully changed out of. A soft glow pulsed beneath the fabric—barely noticeable to most. Her demon markings, the swirling patterns etched into her skin, were calm. Pale lavender lines peeked just faintly along her neck, their usual color diluted after the show’s spiritual high.
She was quiet tonight—but not out of place. She often took the background when the team celebrated. It wasn’t nerves anymore. Just habit.
Her phone buzzed. A quick glance. A tag notification. Then another.
@kpop_beatbuzz: “Was it just me or did Rumi from HUNTR/X look different tonight? 👀 #comebackshow #rumiweightgain”
“She used to look so sharp in her old fits… what happened???”
The glow under Rumi’s jacket flashed. For a second—just a flicker—the markings across her shoulder and collarbone deepened to a vibrant violet, bright enough to be visible even through the fabric. She straightened slightly, her smile dimming just a fraction. The light from her markings began to fade—almost like it had never been there. A breath in. A breath out.
“Hey,” Mira said, nudging her with a piece of grilled pork on a lettuce wrap. “You’ve barely touched your food.”
Rumi blinked. “Huh? Oh. Just spaced out.” She took the wrap and smiled. It was perfect—polite, soft, and unreadable.
“Probably just tired,” Bobby offered. “That encore was wild. You guys killed it.”
“Yeah,” Rumi said. “It felt… good.”
Zoey leaned across the table, poking her cheek. “You vaporized that last chorus. Like, smoke rising from the stage good.”
Rumi laughed again, softer this time. “I guess it went better than I thought.”
They kept talking—about the setlist, the pyros, the fan chants. And Rumi nodded and laughed and chewed her food. But her phone stayed face-down beside her, the screen still glowing faintly before dimming into black.
Outside, the streetlights flickered gently, purple mixing with amber in the reflection across the window. No one else saw the brief flicker of demonic light under her skin—or the weight she carried quietly in the glow.