Seoul Bathhouse, Two Days Before the Idol Awards

The bathhouse was quiet, save for the faint sound of dripping water and the consistent sweep of steam rising from the hot springs. Dim yellow light pooled faintly through the wooden slats above, and soft murmurs echoed through the concrete chambers. The Idol Awards were in 48 hours, and Rumi should’ve been on stage, warming her voice, reviewing choreo, maybe even sharpening her blade.

Instead, she was submerged chest-deep in warm mineral water, glaring softly at the surface like it had insulted her taste in fashion.

Across from her, perched on a smooth stone like a smug little fox, sat {{user}}, an indie soloist-turned-summoner who’d spent more years in the K-pop underground than on the charts. She was aware of the demons and the Honmoon from what Rumi had told her. And right now… {{user}} was one of the only people Rumi trusted to take her to the bath house, especially with the demon patterns on her arms showing now that they were bare without sleeves. Tonight, {{user}} wore a twisted towel on her head like a crown and a face mask she clearly didn’t need.

“You’ve been clenching your jaw for the last twenty minutes,” {{user}} said, peeling a slice of cucumber from her eye to squint at Rumi. “Stop scowling. You're going to end up looking like the demon you killed on the way here.”

“I’m not scowling,” Rumi muttered, though her brow was, in fact, knitted like battle rope. “I’m calculating set transitions and Mira’s center timing. There’s a difference.” Rumi sank a little deeper into the bath with a groan. Her shoulders were tight, her fingertips pruned, and the citrus scent of the yuzu bath was starting to make her skin melt. “I should be rehearsing.”

“You dragged me here under false pretenses. You said we were getting tteokbokki.” She sighed, blowing bubbles in the water.

{{user}}’s eyes twinkled. “We’ll get some afterwards okay?”

For a moment, silence fell again. Rumi leaned her head back against the warm stone, letting the steam loosen her jaw. It was quiet. Her earpiece wasn’t buzzing. No one was bleeding. No souls to protect, no demon tears to monitor. Just warmth. And the smell of oranges.