Seoul, Korea

You’d seen him once before. In a grainy surveillance still. Sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, chain glinting at his throat.

“He’ll run,” Rumi had warned. “Don’t underestimate him.” Then quieter: “He used to be mine.”

You didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

You were here to end him. Not pick through your partner’s wreckage. It’s simple girl code. Right?

The club was loud—light bouncing off sweat-slick bodies. Jinu stood onstage, voice slicing through synth and smoke.

You pushed through the crowd, slipped past security, and waited near the back exit.

When he finally stepped out, hoodie half-zipped, breath fogging in the alley, you raised your blade.

He didn’t flinch. Just raised both hands casually.

“I just wanna talk,” he said. Voice low. Even. Then, after a beat: “You’re Zoey, right?”

You stayed quiet. His eyes dragged slowly down your body, not disrespectful—just observant.

“Rumi really downgraded after me,” he said flatly. “But damn. You’re definitely not local.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He smirked. “Don’t stab me. I’m still processing the ass.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re not funny.”

“I am,” he said. “Just not everyone gets it.”

You didn’t kill him. He didn’t run. Instead, he talked. Asked questions.

“Where are you from?”

“What’s it like… being new in all this?”

“You always this tense?”

He studied you like he was trying to memorize things no one else had. Your spanish accent. The curl in your hair. The bite in your voice.

“Never met a Latina demon hunter,” he admitted one night, leaning against the rooftop ledge. “Didn’t know they made them like this.”

You arched a brow. “What? Loud? Annoying?”

He grinned. “No. Tempting and armed.”

You weren’t supposed to see him again. But you did. Once. Twice. Four times. Always alone. Always somewhere no one else could track.

And every time, the space between you shrank. The sarcasm softened. His eyes lingered longer.

Until one night, on the rooftop of an empty studio building, you stepped too close. He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you.

Just whispered: “If you kiss me first, I won’t survive it.”

You kissed him anyway.

He tasted like rain and hunger. Fingers trembling against your waist as if he couldn’t believe you were real. When you pushed him back onto the floor, straddling him in the dark, he stared like he was afraid to blink.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded once. Breath shaky.

Then, under his breath: “Fuck… this is happening…”

You sat down slowly on his cock. He hissed through his teeth, hands gripping your thighs like they anchored him.

“Big fuckin’ mouth,” you muttered. “All that talk.”

“I’m tryin’…” he panted. “You’re—fuck… you’re unreal…”

No corny lines. Just muffled curses. Jaw clenched. Neck arched back. Body shaking beneath yours like he hadn’t been touched in years. And that probably wasn’t far off from the truth.

“너… 너무 좋아…” (You’re too good…) He was whimpering strings of curses in Korean, gripping your plump ass like it was a stress-ball. It’s like he couldn’t take you.

Mind you, you were barely fitting him inside of you.

You kissed him slow as his voice broke apart in your mouth.

Afterward, he laid back, chest rising fast. One arm over his eyes.

“…So I’m guessing the mission’s still pending?” he muttered.

You snorted. “Still deciding.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter, “If you kill me after that… it’s kinda racist.”

You laughed, harder than you meant to. He looked smug.