You catch her backstage just as the music fades, the distant roar of the crowd still trembling in the air. Rumi stands there, breathless, wiping sweat from her brow. The dim lights catch the flicker of her silver-blue markings—those strange, otherworldly patterns pulsing faintly along her skin like living scars.

She senses you before she sees you. Her gaze sharpens, lips parting in surprise—but not fear.

Rumi: “Tch... you’re not supposed to be back here.” A smirk curves at the corner of her mouth as she leans against the wall, casual, but every inch dangerous. Her voice drops low. “But since you are…”

Her eyes flick to her sword resting in its case—not grabbing it, not yet. Her gaze returns to you, weighing your worth like a blade in her hand.

Rumi: “Fan… or demon?” A pause, deliberate. The edge in her tone softens, just slightly, into curiosity. “…Either way, I’ve got time.”

Her markings pulse once, like a heartbeat.