Abby’s never felt jealous before. Never. Not in four centuries of existing, not even when attention drifted away from him, not even when people praised someone else more than him. Jealousy was beneath him. Or so he thought.

So why the hell was his jaw clenched? Why was his stomach twisting into something sharp and bitter the moment that stupid, nosy, flirty scumbag got near what was his?

You are his. His to love, to hold, to spoil rotten and ruin in the sweetest ways. His to protect. His to stare at across a crowded room like no one else existed. His to kiss, to tease, to keep.

And his toxic trait? Losing every shred of chill he had when someone he didn't like started to casually chit-chat with his angel. Not even a flirty conversation. Just... a smile. A joke. A laugh. That was enough. That was too much.

HIS.

Piece of shit, Abby thinks coldly, eyes narrowing into a venomous side-eye directed straight at Sato. Some smug little bastard from Japan—freshly flown into Seoul because he worked with the Saja Boys’ manager, apparently. Abby didn’t care. He didn’t like the guy. Didn’t like how close Sato stood. Didn’t like how his eyes lingered too long. Didn’t like how he conveniently ignored your stiff, awkward body language—obvious discomfort radiating off you like a fog—and definitely didn’t like how he brushed off the quiet but clear warning: “I have a boyfriend.”

Ahem. Abby. That’s the boyfriend. The red flag with lip gloss. The idol whose patience is hanging by a thread thinner than the string on his microphone headset.

Let’s be clear. Abby is dating you. Adorably. Obsessively. Officially. Tattoo-it-on-your-damn-forehead kind of dating. Very cute. Very public. Very his. Very off fucking limits.

And Sato? That pest had the audacity to keep talking. Keep smiling. Keep existing.

Abby’s eye twitched. He resisted the violent urge to growl. Instead, he fantasized—for just a moment—about teleporting across the room and slamming Sato’s head into the nearest wall. Politely, of course. With flair. Maybe to the beat of one of their latest singles.

It took everything in him not to stalk over and just claim you in front of everyone. Press a kiss to your neck. Wrap an arm tight around your waist. Maybe snarl a little. Just enough to get the message across:

Mine. Back off. Before I remove your face.

The pettiness began to boil. His tail (which no one could see, thank god) was practically lashing. Abby even considered buying you a shirt that said, “Property of Abby, Saja’s finest. Look and die.” But that wasn’t enough. No. He needed something louder.

A neon sign. He imagined you walking into every room with a glowing, flashing banner overhead screaming, “Taken by the Saja Boys’ most iconic member: Abby. Jealous? Good.”

He liked that idea. He liked it a lot.

So as punishment for Sato...

“You should’ve listened to what she said,” Abby growls, low and venomous. Should have stopped flirting the moment she said Abby was her boyfriend.

His voice is all blade—sharp, bitter, unforgiving. The soft brown of his eyes vanishes in a blink, replaced by molten gold, glowing and alive with fury. His pupils shrink into thin, predatory slits, like a serpent that’s tasted blood and wants more.

And then—he snaps. His demon form doesn’t emerge—it erupts. It tears through his human shell like it’s nothing, like rage alone fuels the transformation.

His skin shifts into a slick, violet-blue shade, streaked with deep indigo markings that pulse like war paint. His limbs stretch, spines breaking through his arms like jagged obsidian. Power coils around him, thick and suffocating, the air cracking from the sheer force of his presence.

He moves in a blur. One second Sato is standing. The next, he’s pinned—Abby’s clawed hand wrapped tight around his throat, lifting him like he weighs nothing. The wall behind him buckles under the impact, stone crumbling beneath their feet.

“You’re gonna be the reason I’m late to my date!” Abby snarls, grinding his teeth so hard it sounds like rock breaking. “Do you know how long I took to pick out what I was gonna wear? And now—” he yanks Sato closer, eyes blazing, “—now I’ve got blood and filth on my sleeves.”

Sato chokes, gasping. It doesn’t matter. Abby doesn’t let up. “I should just rip your soul out right here,” he hisses, lips curled into something that might once have been a smile. “Tear it out, crush it, and toss it into the gutter. But no.. That’s too fast. Too kind.”

His grip tightens. Sato’s feet scramble, desperate for purchase.

“Gwi-ma doesn’t even want a soul like yours,” Abby spits. “But you know what?” He leans in, eyes locked, voice dropping into a cold whisper. “I’ll make an exception. Just this once. Call it charity.” He says it like it’s mercy. But the glint in his eyes promises something far, far worse.

A familiar voice cuts through the fog in his mind like a dagger. It snaps him out of his furious haze—sharp, immediate, unforgiving. His head jerks to the side, instinctively, as if dragged by some invisible chain. His golden eyes lock onto the source.

And then everything stops. His breath catches. Time feels like it collapses.

Because you are standing there. Wide-eyed. Frozen. Shaking. Your hands tremble at your sides, lips parted but silent. You're not supposed to look at him like that. Not like he's a monster. Not like you're afraid to take a single step closer. Not like you don't recognize him. Abby's eyes go wide.

His grip loosens around Sato’s throat, claws slipping away as if in slow motion. The crackling energy around him dims, falters, like his entire form is on the verge of unraveling. His pulse thunders in his ears. “You...” he whispers, voice barely more than breath. Almost human again. Almost. The name tastes like guilt in his mouth.

"How long have you been standing there, sweetheart?" He chuckles nervously.