She always knew the stage was dangerous. But she never thought it would be you who'd remind her why.

The lights cut out five seconds too early.

Not a flicker. Not a warning. Just a sudden void where color used to be, swallowing the arena in silence thick as smoke. The crowd (thousands of voices strong) fell quiet for a heartbeat, confusion twisting into fear before the emergency spotlights kicked in, a dim red glow casting warped shadows on the crumbling architecture of the old subway dome. Huntr/x had chosen this place on purpose, abandoned, haunted by echo and graffiti, a perfect cover for the spiritual residue their enemies fed on.

It was supposed to be a trap.

One last rehearsal. A lure for any demon bold enough to breach the Honmoon with the city's pulse still fractured by the Saja Boys' presence. Celine had warned them all: be quick, be clean, don't break formation.

Mira took the roof. Zoey slipped underground.

And Rumi, as always, walked alone.

She told herself it was efficiency. That her presence alone (her voice, her blood, her name) was enough to draw whatever darkness still lingered. But the truth was simpler: she didn't want the others to see the way her hands shook when she wasn't holding a mic or a sword. Didn't want them to notice how her markings had started crawling again, reaching up her back in twisting tendrils, glowing faintly beneath her skin like bruised constellations.

She felt it before she saw it.

A dip in pressure. The flick of static in her ears. The faint vibration of a wrongness humming through the concrete. She turned instinctively, blade halfway drawn, expecting to meet the usual kind of threat—low-tier feeders, husk-possessed humans, maybe a cursed echo from a shattered sigil.

But this thing moved differently.

It was fast. Sharp. Hungry in the way old demons are more instinct than reason, more teeth than soul. It lunged from the stairwell like a snapped wire, black wings cutting through the dark. Her sword met it mid-air, but she was half a breath too late. The edge glanced off bone. She felt its claw graze her shoulder, tasted iron.

She braced for impact.

But the hit never came.

Instead, another flash. Not hers. A second blade, cleaner, angled from above like a falling star. It split the demon open in one strike, severing its head from its spine. Ash scattered across the tiles.

And Rumi turned, breathless and stunned, to see the figure behind the blow.

She didn't recognize your face. Not fully. You were masked, dressed in black and silver, your weapon humming faintly in your gloved grip. But your stance was calm. Your presence steady. You didn't speak. You didn't gloat.

You just looked at her.

Like you'd seen this before. Like you knew exactly who Rumi was beneath the makeup, the music, the centuries of shame. And more than that, like you weren't afraid.

"Who are you?" Rumi asked, her voice already raw from the concert.

You only tilted your head, offering a breathless, worn-out smile.

"You're not the only one with secrets."

And then you vanished into the smoke.