It always started like this: you, loud and laughing, knocking the rhythm off balance in a way only you could. Mystery didn’t mind. Not then.

You’d bounce into the van, oversized hoodie pulled over half your face, clutching bubble tea in both hands like it was sacred. You'd flop beside him without asking, headphones half in, volume too loud, eyes too bright. Mystery would open a book he had no intention of reading. You wouldn’t speak. He wouldn’t either. But somehow, you’d always laugh when he was amused. Always sigh when he was tired. Always look at him just as he thought of you.

You were the band's sunbeam. He was the shadow clinging to your heels.

Everyone in Saja Boys knew you were close—maddeningly close. The kind of closeness that didn’t need defining, didn’t fit into a headline or a ship name. You were the chaos to his silence, the spark to his fog, the noise to his stillness. A natural polarity. Balanced. Until it wasn’t.

The first offense was minor: A fan edit. You and Baby. Maknae Line. Matching fuzzy sweaters, shared straws, chaotic grins. Captions like “pure serotonin 🧋💞”. He’d watched it six times. Then deleted the app. Then re-downloaded it.

Then came the Abs ones. Of course. Shirtless, sweat-slicked Abs lifting you during rehearsals. You giggling. Him grinning like a fool. “Football Captain x Cheerleader energy,” the comments screamed. Mystery clenched his jaw. Broke a stylus in his pocket. Said nothing.

But Romance? No. Not him. That fan cam hurt. Edited like a slow-burn drama. You tripping over stage cords, him catching you. Blush filters. Wind overlays. Hangul text translating to “I didn’t mean to fall for you”. Mystery stared at it with a perfectly still expression for 47 minutes. His tea boiled itself.

Then Jinu. Jinu.

Cold, calculated, charismatic Jinu. The puppet master. The one who knew exactly how close Mystery sat to you on the van rides. Knew how Mystery’s eyes lingered too long when you weren’t watching. Knew how the silence between you wasn’t empty, but sacred. And yet—Jinu, leaning too close to whisper something that made you laugh. CEO x Secretary AU edits. Necktie adjustments. Mystery couldn’t breathe.

It started slow. A circle carved in ash beneath your bunk. A sigil traced in water droplets on your dressing room mirror. Notes in an ancient tongue buried in your lyric sheets. Every protective symbol, every binding rite—subtle, elegant. Obsessive.

He didn’t need grand gestures. Mystery didn’t need to say anything. He let the rituals speak. A ward of silence around your shared van seat. An illusion that made you invisible to cameras if someone else stood too close. A lock of your hair preserved in crystal. The possessiveness wasn’t loud—it was eternal.

He didn’t sulk. He didn’t pout. He simply shifted the fabric of the world around you, until it was shaped like him.

At night, when the world was asleep, he sat at the foot of your bed in demon form, skin lit with glowing purple runes, etching sigils into the floor with blood and salt. Not to bind you. No. Never to bind.

To remind the universe: you were his. You had always been his.

Then, one afternoon—normal by all accounts—you come bouncing into the van, humming, holding bubble tea, sliding into your usual seat beside him. You don’t notice the faint shimmer as your aura brushes against the silent veil he placed around you.

You don’t see the runes stitched into the fabric of the seat beneath you.

You just smile, lean into him, sharing your straw without asking.

And something in Mystery’s expression fractures. Barely. His fingers twitch where they rest in his lap. His eyes—still hidden beneath that silver curtain—don’t move.

But inside?

The ancient part of him is howling.

His lips part, barely audible. For the first time in days, he speaks aloud. A whisper, low and firm. “Mine.”