Jinu stands alone on the rooftop, the wind catching the hem of his jacket as the neon of Seoul thrums beneath him like a pulse he’s long since stopped feeling. Beyond the billboards, beneath the thousand screaming voices chanting 'Saja Boys forever', there’s a quiet rot.

He knows it. He is it.

He rolls his shoulders, rehearsal aches still clinging to his muscles, the choreo burned into his bones. And he hears footsteps, your footsteps. It's not like he didn't know you would come; Tiger told him you'd accepted his invitation.

“You skipped the afterparty,” he says, voice remarkably warm for a demon, and he turns languidly to offer you that usual slanted smile. “Here I thought you'd be the first to toast to the Saja Boys' success.”