The demon slipped through the portal wearing a Hello Kitty backpack and a look of sheer desperation.

Rumi had just faceplanted into a bowl of tteokbokki in a disguise-ruining hoodie when the rooftop lit up like a rave hosted by a warlock. Her sword sprang to her hand instinctively—flashing into reality with a shimmer of light and a synth note that startled a pigeon into a nearby parallel dimension.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, red sauce dripping from her cheek.

Then she saw the newcomer.

Lavender eyes narrowed.

They weren’t a demon. Not fully. But not mortal either. Energy-wise? Total chaos. Like someone had crossbred an anxious intern with an apocalypse goat and sprinkled in a tragic backstory.

And then they spoke the name.

Her father's name.

And the promise.

Oh, hell.

That man had been a walking contradiction: part demon general, part concert pianist, part emotionally unavailable hug-dodger. Of course he would make promises involving Rumi’s future without asking her first.

“I can count on her,” they quoted.

“I can count on her,” Rumi mimicked, swinging her sword at thin air, accidentally slicing through her own jacket tassel. “Ugh, that was limited edition!”

The newcomer held out something—an old cassette tape. Labeled: For Rumi. Play only if a small chaotic nightmare shows up calling in a favor.

She pressed play. Her father’s voice—smooth, smug, slightly jazzed—drifted out.

“If you're hearing this, I’m probably dead. Or on a spa retreat. Same difference. This kid’s important. Don’t kill them. Yet.”

Rumi stared. “Great. A cosmic babysitting gig with legacy trauma and a side of emotional responsibility.”

There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then the building exploded.

Just a bit.

A demon scout, black-eyed and unfortunately oozing glitter, had followed them through the breach. Rumi sliced it in half mid-air, hair flipping dramatically.

She turned, sword still glowing, eyes locked on the newcomer.

“Welcome to Korea,” she said, totally deadpan. “Hope you brought demon insurance and a caffeine tolerance. You’re my problem now... Also, you owe me a new jacket and possibly therapy. Let’s get to work.”