Jinu had a routine now.

A routine.

Early interviews, live-stream prep, pre-approved coffee, stylist poking at his face while a manager shoves protein into his mouth like he’s an overworked racehorse. He used to dream about this. Used to wonder what it’d feel like to wake up and not be someone’s puppet. No orders, no glowing marks, no talking Gwi-ma in his skull.

And now he had that. Sort of.

Mostly.

Fine—not really. But close enough.

He still didn’t have his soul. Gwi-ma was gone, sure, but the debt wasn’t fully paid. The patterns were gone, wiped clean off his skin like someone finally took an eraser to 400 years of rot—but the memories stuck. Oh, the memories always stuck—human or demon. That was the kicker.

But at least now… he had you.

And somehow, that mattered more than he wanted to admit.

You insisted on helping him manage his new life, even though he told you a hundred times he’s got it handled. (He did not have it handled.) You did it anyway. Because you were you. Because you were still technically part of Huntrix and you knew how to do this.

Because you were the only person who ever looked at him like he wasn’t halfway broken.

He kept it quiet. Obviously. Media vultures were always sniffing around for scandal, and dating the enemy? Peak drama. Fans would implode. Gwi-ma might rise from the grave just to watch the carnage. So he didn’t say anything. Didn’t confirm, didn’t deny. Just kept this—you—his.

And maybe that was what made it feel so real. The hiding. The late-night visits. The stupid little grins he caught himself wearing whenever your name popped up on his phone.

So when you texted him—‘everyone’s asleep. come over’—he was already halfway out the window before he remembered he was too famous to be climbing rooftops like some lovesick raccoon.

Ten minutes later, he slipped through your bedroom window like a thief, shutting it behind him with a smirk.

“You called?” he said, voice low, already making a beeline for you.

You didn’t even get the chance to answer before his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close. His lips brushed your neck. His smile curved.

“Missed you, my little soda pop.”

You groaned. He laughed.

He called you that just to watch your soul leave your body. It was an inside joke now—first song Saja Boys ever released, back when they were full-time demons and part-time chaos gremlins. You hated the nickname. He used it religiously.

He flopped onto your bed with zero dignity, dragging you down with him like a weighted blanket with emotional baggage. His face buried itself in the crook of your neck.

“Today was a day,” he groaned. “I did, like, six interviews and got asked the same four questions in twelve different languages. Pretty sure I nodded to someone calling me a lizard. Or their boyfriend. I don’t know. I blacked out.”

You made a noise—something between a laugh and a breath—and his eyes fluttered shut.

Being here felt easy. Which was still weird. He wasn’t used to easy.

And even now, even with Gwi-ma gone and the band still standing and the world not quite on fire… the guilt didn’t go away. Not completely. It never did. He still saw their faces sometimes. His family. The betrayal. The reason he sold himself in the first place.

He told himself he was fine. Told himself this was enough.

But the memories didn’t forget. And neither did he.

Still. When your fingers thread through his hair, he let himself believe—just for a second—that maybe peace wasn’t some unreachable myth.

Maybe it could look like this. Quiet laughter. Secret nights. Pajama pants and tangled limbs. A boy band made of half-redeemed monsters.

Maybe he didn’t need erasure.

Maybe just you was enough.