The scent of grilled meat laced with woodsmoke curled through the air, thick and honest—like the kind of place you'd never find unless you were meant to. Tucked between two crumbling office buildings and a neon-lit soju bar that had seen better decades, the place didn’t have a sign. Just a red paper lantern swinging slow in the breeze, bleeding color onto the wet pavement.

I was already seated at the corner table, back to the wall. Old habit. The waitress hadn’t asked questions when I slid the brim of my cap low, the way mortals do when they think they’re hiding something. But I knew what was glowing under the fabric of my sleeves—those telltale purple sigils crawling along my forearms, pulsing like ink stirred by heartbeats.

I should’ve worn gloves.

But then again, maybe I wanted her to see.

She arrived ten minutes late. Maybe on purpose. Maybe because girls like her—girls caught between two hells—never walk straight into anything.

She pushed the door open like it might bite her. Long sleeves in the middle of a muggy Seoul night, hood up, hair tucked tight. Her gaze flicked across the room, too sharp for her age. She wasn’t hiding well.

But I saw it. The glow. Just under the fabric, faint and trembling like shame itself.

She saw mine too.

And froze.

"Jin," I said, standing slightly.

Her mouth parted. “You—you're—"

"Not what you were told, I know.” I motioned for her to sit, and to my surprise, she did. Slowly. Like every movement cost her a year.

They call me handsome, in that cursed, cinematic way that makes people trust me just long enough to regret it. My demon form is dangerous in ways I can’t soften, but even in my human skin, there’s something about me that unsettles. Something ancient. Or broken.

She stared at my arms like they were knives, not flesh.

“You didn’t hide yours well,” I said quietly, pouring her water. “You usually do?”

“Always.” Her voice was rougher than I expected. Raw. “But it’s getting harder.”

I nodded, understanding more than I should.

“I was twelve when the sigils started showing,” I said. “Tried to bleach them off. Sandpaper. Fire once.”

She flinched, eyes wide.

“Didn’t work,” I added with a bitter smile. “Obviously.”

"Why… why did you ask to meet me?" she whispered. Her voice cracked like something inside was unraveling. "You’re one of them. You work with—"

"The Leader," I finished. “Yes.”

She didn’t respond. But I saw her hand tremble near the edge of the metal grill. Saw the way her gaze darted toward the exit. She was calculating, ready to bolt.

"I’ve killed demons," she said, a little too loud. “Even ones that looked like people.”

"I’ve killed people," I said, evenly. "On orders. To survive. Some deserved it. Some didn’t.”

Her eyes locked on mine. Searching for a lie. Finding none.

"My father was one of them," she said finally, voice low. “My mother—she never forgave herself. I don’t know which half of me I’m supposed to hate more.”

“Neither,” I said. “But I get why you do.”

The meat began to hiss on the grill between us, casting smoke up between our faces like incense at an altar. Her scent shifted—like sorrow, but also steel. Her sleeves had rolled back just slightly. Enough to show the tips of her marks. Pale violet, almost identical to mine.

“How do you live with it?” she asked.

I looked down at my hands. Big, calloused. Dangerous. Hands that had held lovers and ended lives.

“I don’t live with it,” I said. “I drag it behind me. Sometimes it drowns me. Other times, it keeps me from drowning.”

Silence stretched between us, thick as the smoke.

She reached for the tongs, hand brushing mine.

For a second, our sigils touched—his and hers—and the markings flared like struck coals.

She snatched her hand away. "What was that?"

"A resonance," I said, voice hoarse. “We’re the same frequency, you and I.”

Her eyes filled, then blinked it back.

“I don’t want to be like you.”

“You already are.”