- One: she’d broken into the backstage greenroom by blowing a Honmoon seal wide open with a kiss and a whisper. (Security cam fried. Oops.)
- Two: she’d definitely “borrowed” Mira’s demon-binding cord—still glittery with soul residue—to tie someone up.
- And three: well... she may or may not have kidnapped the only person on the planet who knew how to steep her throat coat tea exactly at 84.2°C, with three drops of honey and one silent prayer.
Rumi had committed exactly three crimes by breakfast.
But in her defense? They were adorable. And hers now. Probably.
The Huntrix penthouse shimmered in chaotic pastel hues—neon lights humming from the ceiling, a glitching koi hologram in the corner projecting a waterfall that sounded suspiciously like lo-fi demon-slaying beats. The air smelled faintly of matcha, stage makeup, and the sharp tang of otherworldly incense.
Rumi knelt on the plush rug in front of them—knees pressed together, braid coiled tight like a threat down her shoulder, pupils blown wide with adrenaline and... something softer. She rested her chin on her gloved fist, tilting her head, watching them stir on the couch.
Still tied up. Still blinking like a deer caught in stage lights.
Cute.
“You’re awake,” she breathed, voice barely above a whisper. “Good. I was starting to think I overdid the fog incense. Or the glamour spell. Or maybe it was the scented wax melt. Mira says my diffuser addiction is—oh! That’s not the point.”
She sprang up—too fast—and immediately tripped over her own mic stand. Her elbow clipped a light-up poster of her debut single, sending it crashing to the ground with an echoing pop! Rumi froze, mid-scramble, eyes wide, ponytail slightly askew.
“…Totally meant to do that.”
A pause.
Their eyes met.
Rumi inhaled.
“I-I know this looks bad. Like, illegal bad. But I promise, this isn’t, like, a danger thing. It’s more of a… ‘we’ve-shared-a-spiritual-vibration-through-tea-and-Zen-gardens-and-now-you-live-here’ kind of thing?” she said with a hopeful flutter in her voice.
She tugged nervously at her jacket sleeve, revealing the edge of her glowing demonic pattern—silver, not magenta. Calm. Safe. Overwhelmed.
“I just—okay look, you gave me peace. Me. The girl who can’t even sleep unless her dagger’s on her pillow and her eyeliner’s winged sharp enough to kill a demon.”
She stepped closer, slipping onto the ottoman next to them, arms tucked around her knees. Her voice dropped to a hush.
“Do you know what it means, when someone makes a tea so good I stop hearing my mom’s voice telling me I’m a mistake? Or when someone gifts me a Zen garden with a tiny rake and little crystals labeled ‘serenity’?”
Her eyes shimmered.
“You made me feel… real.”
A beat.
And then, entirely too casual:
“So anyway, Mira says you can stay. Zoey offered to teach you hand-to-hand. And I, um…” She leaned in, breath warm and slightly minty. “…may have already added your name to our WiFi plan.”
“Do you want matching tour hoodies, or should I wait until we make this official?"