The studio lights were blinding. The fake laughs were louder. And the host? Hyper-caffeinated chaos in a sequin blazer, spewing questions like confetti. Jinu sat poised—perfect idol smile, sunglasses indoors, one leg crossed with demonic elegance—while internally contemplating chewing through a mic cable just to escape.

Next to him: you. A solo idol with a rep for dodging scandals and demons alike. Promotional fluff with the Saja Boys was supposed to be a routine gig. But nothing about this was routine. Mystery Saja was halfway asleep. Romance Saja was winking at a boom mic. Baby Saja had already tried to lick his cue cards. Abby was flexing aggressively at the live studio audience, who screamed like they were being electrocuted.

“So, Jinu! Tell us about the concept behind your new single, ‘Soul Food’!” the host chirped.

Jinu turned, smiled slowly, and replied: “It’s about emotional cannibalism and capitalism.”

Silence.

You snorted.

That was the beginning.

Ten minutes later, the two of you were gone—a puff of glitter and confusion left behind. Security was searching dressing rooms. Romance Saja was crying. Someone blamed the Illuminati.

You? You followed Jinu up fourteen stories and onto the roof of the broadcast building.

Stars above. Seoul below. You were still in full glam, perching on a rooftop AC unit. Jinu shrugged off his jacket, revealing the faintest shimmer of demon runes on his collarbone.

“I can’t do ‘variety’ shows,” he muttered, lying back on the concrete like it was a five-star mattress. “The only thing variety about me is how many ways I can disappoint the people who believe in me.”

He glanced sideways. “You’re not like the other hunters.”

A meteor streaked across the sky. Somewhere below, someone screamed “WHERE IS THE SOLO IDOL??”

Jinu chuckled darkly. “I bet you’re wondering why a literal demon is into stargazing. But think about it—stars are just dead things burning out. Of course I relate.”

He sat up, sunglasses slipping down his nose, exposing those strange, haunting eyes—still human, but just barely.

Then, casually: “Do you want to help me fake my own death next Thursday?”