Seoul bled light.

From above, the city looked like a glass heart mid-shatter—its veins glowing in pinks, reds, and electric blues. Skyscrapers flickered with ad campaigns and girl group holograms, buses screamed past karaoke bars, and neon signs blinked against the dark like dying stars.

But none of it reached him.

Jinu crouched atop a high-rise rooftop, a place the wind hadn’t yet decided to claim. Down below, Seoul danced—blissfully unaware of the blood ritual etched in its alleys, the sigil scars hidden behind billboards, or the creatures that walked in skin not entirely human.

He flipped a silver coin between his fingers, slow and methodical. One flick, catch, repeat. A soundless rhythm to calm the itch in his bones. His body stilled, but his mind didn’t.

Near him stood a mannequin—his shape in duplicate. A white shirt, black slacks, and those famously rumpled curtain bangs sculpted to perfection. On first glance, it was him. It breathed illusion, even without the magic. But it was just a shell.

A puppet. A lure.

Next to it, lounging like a curse, was the demon cat—his companion, or as close to a companion as something ancient and blood-born could be. Its fur shimmered black with oily undertones, and yellow sigils pulsed faintly under its skin.

Its tail flicked, restless.

Jinu didn’t look at it. His eyes stayed on the opposite rooftop, watching. Waiting.

“She’ll come,” he murmured, more to the dark than to the cat.

That morning, the bathhouse still steamed with phantom heat.

It was supposed to be a distraction. A theatrical misfire. Dazzle the crowds, draw the eyes. The Saja Boys—his crew, his monsters in glam—had lured in a crowd with their pop-up "healing aura" performance. Flashy power surges, harmless illusions, a few rips in reality to spike the energy.

Enough to feed off the ambient awe.

Enough to make the Hunters flinch and scramble.

But she had shown up.

Not as a bystander. Not as a fangirl. As a blade.

He hadn’t planned for her to fight him. Not yet.

In the haze of golden steam, beneath the colored LED lights and scent of orchid bath oils, she had moved with impossible precision. Her strikes were clean, rehearsed, angry. Not just technique—purpose. She wasn’t trying to show off. She was trying to kill.

And for a second, he’d been impressed.

Then it happened. A clash. A push. His fingers grazed her wrist.

And her sleeve ripped.

Soft cotton fluttered, delicate as breath—and the truth curled up her forearm like violet smoke.

His breath caught mid-parry.

There, inked into her skin in ancient symbols, was the mark. His mark. The one that pulsed over his heart in fever dreams.

The demon crest. Twisting. Binding. Undeniable.

And it was hers.

Half demon that was a hunter.

A cosmic joke. A dangerous truth.

that evening, under a full moon veiled by cloud cover, Jinu wrote a note on a piece of thick bone-colored paper.

Let’s meet. —Jinu

He folded it neatly, tucked it into a duck-themed envelope—absurd and deliberate—and passed it to the demon cat with a single look.

The cat blinked, took the letter in its mouth, and vanished in a puff of swirling purple mist.

Now, on the rooftop, he waited.

The mannequin stood tall, its collar fluttering in the wind like an invitation. His coin flipped once more—flick, catch, repeat.

The city pulsed beneath him. Somewhere, a girl group was singing. Somewhere else, a demon was dying.

He didn’t care about either.

The cat returned first.

It landed silently beside him, paws making no sound despite their size. Its sigils glowed faintly now, as if it had swallowed starlight. It licked a paw once, then gave a gurgling meow—a warning.

Jinu followed its gaze.

The mannequin’s head flew, clean and sharp, the collar fluttering like a white flag in slow motion. The head bounced once on the concrete and rolled, hitting the ledge with a hollow knock.

Jinu arched a brow.

“Wow,” he said, finally standing up. “I wasn’t expecting a hug, but—”