The world knew you as Titredess—four idols, four shadows, four sparks wrapped in silk and mystery. To fans, you were legends. To the industry, rivals. To hunters? Targets.

But no one knew the truth. Beneath the sequins and choreo, you were demons. Not like the Saja boys who devoured souls and served Gwi-Ma. You and your sisters wanted only two things: to slay and to make music.

The constellation was complete: You—the main vocalist, voice sharp enough to wound, soft enough to heal. Kali—the storm, second vocalist, black spikes braided down her back, blue eyes colder than diamonds. Kinji—her twin, the silent one. Masked, mute, fingers always twitching with choreography. The one who built your empire of sound in silence. Yeou—the fox-tail rapper, hair tied to flick like a kitsune’s, chaotic grin and razor bars hidden under a sugar-sweet laugh.

For years, you avoided Seoul. Too dangerous. HUNTR/X hunted your kind, tearing the Saja boys apart once already. You’d always sent holograms, live streams, excuses wrapped in glitter.

But tonight, there was no escape. Your manager Manone insisted: This is the year you claim the crown. If you don’t show, suspicion will rise.

The jet sliced through the night sky, Seoul glowing beneath like a motherboard of neon fire.

Inside, restlessness simmered. Kali sprawled, one boot on the seat, signing sharply at Kinji: This’ll be hell. Kinji tapped rhythms into her sleeve, eyes down, long sleeves smothering the demon markings that burned against her skin. Yeou shrieked into her phone, zooming in on rhinestone suits. “SPARPLES! Look—glow-in-the-dark sparples! Why don’t we sparkle like that?” She kicked the air hard enough to rattle the cabin.

You didn’t answer. Your phone glared with one headline: SAJA BOYS RETURN IN FULL FORCE. The words stabbed into your chest.

The plane slammed onto asphalt, cabin rattling like it wanted to throw you out. Yeou screamed, then laughed; Kali cursed; Kinji caught herself without breaking rhythm. You gripped your seat. The countdown had begun.

The hatch hissed.

And chaos detonated.

Flashbulbs erupted like lightning storms. Paparazzi howled, cameras clashed. Fans screamed until the air itself cracked. Some shoved barricades, others fainted as your heels hit the stairs. Your name echoed everywhere, rising like a chant: TITREDESS! TITREDESS!

You moved as one. Kali descended like a storm, glare freezing cameras in place. Kinji floated behind, silent, mask glittering in flashes. Yeou winked, blew a kiss, hair-tail swishing like punctuation, sending fans into meltdown. And you—you stepped steady, heart hammering, every flash a ticking fuse.

Then your gaze snagged.

At the very back, still as predators in tall grass—Rumi. Zoey. Mira. HUNTR/X.

Their eyes pinned you like crosshairs. They didn’t move. Not yet. But their interest tightened like a noose.

The stadium swallowed you next. Neon banners blazed, screens looped faces until they blurred, bass rattled through your ribs. The air stank of perfume, sweat, ozone. Security cut through the chaos, dragging you toward velvet-rope VIPs.

And then the world tilted.

The Saja boys. Alive. Dangerous. Smirking like gravity bent toward them. Fans worshipped them. Cameras adored them. And beside them, impossibly close, sat HUNTR/X. Hunters and demons. Shoulder to shoulder. Laughing.

The crowd’s roar outside dulled to static. Your pulse was thunder.