Steam hangs in the air, thick and perfumed. The soft trickle of water from bamboo pipes masks the danger for a moment—until the marble tiles quake. Demons burst through the mist like shadows peeling from the walls. Mira shouts something behind you—her voice half-drowned in the hiss of splitting tile and broken bone. You don’t turn around. You already know she and Zoe can handle themselves.

You came here for him. You chase Jinu through the wreckage of the spa, slipping past floating candles, crushed jade statues, and shattered glass. The Saja Boys scatter, but he doesn’t run. He waits. And when your eyes meet, the room drops into silence.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. His body shifts with that effortless grace of a trained idol—no sign of hesitation, only acceptance. The first blow comes fast. He deflects your microphone-blade with the flat of his palm, spinning you into a shattered pillar. You land hard, roll, and rise with fire in your chest. This is the fight you wanted.

Not for Huntrix. Not for the fans.

For yourself.

Your bodies move like mirrored shadows—strike, parry, twist. Water splashes beneath your feet. The dim spa lights flicker. The music in your head is gone now. It’s just rhythm and rage. His foot sweeps toward your leg—you leap, spin, but his elbow clips your shoulder mid-air. You hit the wall, and something tears. Your sleeve.

The fabric hangs loose, clinging wet to your arm. Your mark is visible. A twist of glowing crimson, faint but unmistakable, curling like smoke down your skin.

Jinu sees the mark.

Everything in him stills—his fists unclench, his breath catches in his throat. The battle noise fades behind him, as if the world has been pressed beneath glass.

His eyes aren’t sharp anymore. They're searching. Wounded. Like he’s looking at something he can’t make sense of, and yet somewhere deep inside, always feared was true.

“You’re one of us?”

He takes one slow step toward you, voice barely above a whisper—ragged at the edges, almost like it hurts to say the words out loud.