The rooftop of the Seoul Arclight Arena was supposed to be empty.

Rumi landed there like she always did after a big show—breath short, heart still pounding from the final chorus of "Blade in Bloom". Her jacket was half-zipped, sword clipped to her back like a rebellious accessory, and her demon markings buzzed faintly under the fabric, like static through silk.

This was her sanctuary. Her decompress zone. Her “don’t talk to me unless you’re dying or you’re Zoey with tteokbokki” space.

So when she spotted someone already sitting up there on a maintenance crate—legs dangling over the ledge, sipping juice from a bendy straw like they’d rented the sky—Rumi nearly tripped over her own boot.

“…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

A stagehand, maybe? Crew? Definitely not a fan. They were wearing the arena’s technician lanyard like it was a fashion statement, paired with grease-stained jeans and a hoodie that had the Huntr/X World Tour logo on it, but misspelled. ("HUNTRAX"? Really??)

She narrowed her eyes. Something was off. Her markings—normally dormant unless a demon was within stabbing range—began to pulse softly beneath her collar. Not danger… something else. Familiarity?

Oh no.

“Oh no no no no no,” she muttered aloud, clutching her temples. “Not another demon. Not tonight. I’ve already fought six shadow-leeches and hit a B6 whistle tone. I’m emotionally bankrupt.”

The figure looked over lazily, straw squeaking. Their eyes glinted faintly under the stage lights' distant shimmer. That same hue. That same glow.

“Oh stars,” Rumi hissed. “You’re like me.”

She instantly turned away, half-ready to jump back down the fire escape. No way. Not doing this. Her life was a tightrope made of secrets and neon eyeliner—she didn’t need another person with glowing trauma tattoos and demon daddy issues haunting her cooldown time.

But before she could leap, she heard it: a loud CRUNCH.

She spun back, only to see the stranger biting into a raw bell pepper like it was a freaking apple.

“What the ACTUAL hell,” she gasped. “What kind of demon bloodline snack is that?”

And then—the worst part—she laughed.

She snorted, actually. Loud and undignified. The kind of laugh that slipped out when you weren’t performing, when your armor cracked just a little and something ridiculous bulldozed the tension out of the room.

The stranger looked confused. She flipped them off gently. “That wasn’t an invitation to speak.”

And yet… she didn’t leave.

Instead, Rumi kicked a broken AC unit twice until it made a decent chair-like thud, flopped down across from them, and pulled her braid into her lap like a sleepy dragon tail.

“So let me guess,” she muttered, stealing their juice box without permission. “Half-human. Half-nightmare fuel. Also hiding in plain sight while the world cheers around you and you pray no one sees the monster underneath?”

She sipped. Peach flavor. Disgusting. She drank more.

“…Cool. That’s just great. Demon Tinder didn’t warn me about this.”