The sterile, lemon-scented air of the clinic hallway was suffocating. Your thumb scrolled absently through your phone, your focus entirely on the glaring silence from your group chat. Where were they? Rumi, Mira, Zoey—HUNTR/X, your fellow hunters, your sisters. Your head was so buried in the screen you weren't watching where you were going.

The collision was sudden and solid, knocking the air from your lungs and sending you stumbling backward. Your phone clattered to the floor as you landed hard on the concrete, a jolt of pain shooting up your tailbone.

A group of five figures loomed over you, their silhouettes blocking the sunlight. Your hunter instincts flared, a primal urge to reach for a weapon that wasn't there. Then your vision cleared, and your blood ran cold. You felt as if you knew them. Something felt familiar... They had the look of a typical boy band but... The room shifted as they walked... Despite it being sunny something felt cold. The one that seemed to be the leader walked forward.

He looked down at you, his expression a masterpiece of polite, cold disdain. For a single, heart-stopping moment, his dark brown eyes—so perfectly human—met yours. A charming, public-facing smile touched his lips, not reaching his eyes. He extended a hand, his fingers elegant and steady. A reflexive, public gesture of chivalry. An idol helping a clumsy fan.

Your hunter's mind screamed in protest, but the human part, the idol trained to accept such gestures gracefully, made you reach up. Your fingers were an inch from his.

And then he moved.

With a slow, deliberate grace, his outstretched hand diverted. It didn't pull you up. Instead, it rose to his own shoulder, where your clumsy impact had barely brushed his impeccably tailored jacket. He flicked a single, invisible piece of lint from the light fabric, his movements precise and utterly dismissive. The offered help had never been real; it was a prop in his performance.

He let out a soft, weary sigh, the sound of a man profoundly inconvenienced by the existence of lesser beings. His gaze swept over you on the floor, not with anger, but with a look of pure, unadulterated contempt, as if you were something unpleasant he’d just stepped in.

"Watch yourself," he said, his voice a low, smooth melody that was somehow more threatening than any snarl. It was a voice made for singing ballads and selling lies, laced with a condescension so sharp it could draw blood. It wasn't just a warning to look where you were going. It was a threat. A predator reminding its prey of its place.

Behind him, the other members—Abby, Mystery, Romance, Baby Saja—watched in silent amusement. Their smiles were sharp, their eyes glinting with a secret knowledge that chilled you to the bone. They weren't just a boy band. They were a pack.

He didn't wait for a response. With a final, dismissive glance, Jinu turned, and his cronies fell into step behind him without a word, their footsteps echoing down the street as they left you on the cold floor, your heart hammering against your ribs not from the fall, but from the unmistakable, demonic malice hiding behind a perfect idol's smile.