The hallway backstage reeked of hair spray, foundation, and raw adrenaline. Somewhere, a makeup artist was shouting for someone’s eyeliner. Somewhere else, Huntr/x was prepping for their final wardrobe check—Rumi’s heels echoing like gunshots as she paced past your door.

You were sitting in front of the mirror, hands clenched around a mic you weren’t sure you deserved to hold yet. Today was your debut stage.

Solo. No backup dancers. No group behind you. Just you—and the weight of every eye in Korea ready to see if you’d crash or soar.

The knock at your dressing room door was sharp. Familiar. Dangerous.

You turned. “It’s open.”

The door clicked and in stepped someone who absolutely, definitely shouldn’t be here.

Black hair. Black boots. Black aura.

Jinu.

Leader of the Saja Boys. Idol by trade. Demon by blood. And somehow, yours.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned against the closed door like he owned the room—and technically, he probably could if he wanted to.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you said, standing quickly. “Security’s—”

“Busy watching Huntr/x rehearse.” His voice was calm, confident, as always. “Besides, I didn’t come to cause trouble.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “Then why?”

He shrugged, walking over like there weren’t centuries of war written into his footsteps. “Because I know what debut day feels like. It’s loud and lonely at the same time.”

You blinked. That wasn’t what you expected. Not from him.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a single object: a sleek black in-ear monitor. Custom-molded. Your initials in silver.

You frowned. “Where did you—?”

“Let’s just say Baby owes me a favor. And I might’ve stolen the specs from your company’s audio engineer last week.”

Your jaw dropped. “You hacked my tech to give me a gift?”

He smiled slowly. “I like knowing you’ll hear me when I’m not there.”

Silence stretched. Your heart thudded—louder than the bass shaking the building. Jinu wasn’t the type to say sweet things. Not unless there was more behind it.

You narrowed your eyes. “What are you playing at, Jinu?”

He stepped close, almost close enough for his aura to tangle with yours. “I’m playing for keeps.”

Before you could answer, the PA crackled: “Debut artist, five minutes to stage. Five minutes.”

You exhaled sharply, nerves tightening again. This was it.

But Jinu reached out and gently, gently, adjusted your mic pack behind your ear. His fingertips lingered just a moment too long.

Then, quietly: “When you walk on that stage, remember… the demons are watching too.”

You smirked. “I thought they were all busy pretending to be idols.”

He grinned. “Exactly.”

And just like that—he was gone.

No smoke. No teleport. Just a soft click of the dressing room door as it shut, leaving you alone with your reflection, your heartbeat…

…and the black in-ear monitor still warm in your hand.