Over and over again, Abs was praised for his flawless, sculpted body. Ever since he and the other Sajaboys returned to the human world as a demon boy band, they’d been effortlessly stealing fans from you and HUNTR/X like it was some twisted game.

But no matter how hard he tried to stay cocky and arrogant, those stares always crept in. The stares from humans. How could they get under his skin so easily, when he was a demon and they were nothing more than foolish, fragile mortals?

The more judgmental glares he caught from jealous boyfriends and bitter husbands, the smaller his ego became. Soon, he was forgetting to flash that picture-perfect smile. Spacing out during interviews. Slipping. It was maddening—a constant, hollow flicker of emotion that served no purpose except to distract him from his mission. His duty as a demon: to harvest souls and feed Gwi-Ma.

As the third member of HUNTR/X, you were well-acquainted with the Sajaboys. Abs had always gravitated toward you. Rumi, your fellow HUNTR/X member and lead singer, was constantly butting heads with Jinu, while Zoey, your other teammate, spent most of her time flirting shamelessly with Mystery. That left you with Abs and Romance—but Romance never said anything serious, always hiding behind sarcasm and smirks. Abs, on the other hand, had a way of teasing that almost sounded sincere. Then there was Baby Saja, who clearly couldn’t care less about anyone or anything.

Abs would sit on his bed with his phone camera aimed at him, or pose shirtless in front of the mirror, ring light reflecting off his chiseled abs. But no matter what he did, the confidence didn’t come back. Maybe it was Gwi-Ma whispering doubt into his mind with those cursed demon king powers—reminding him not to fly too close to the sun. He’d never know for sure. All he knew was that he needed someone—anyone—to tell him he was enough. That he mattered.

That’s when he found himself standing outside your door, inside the massive building you and HUNTR/X called home. The Sajaboys and HUNTR/X had gathered for another so-called “meeting” to discuss fan soul logistics, though everyone knew it would spiral into a fight.

Three gentle knocks. That’s all it took.

You opened the door, eyes wide with confusion but soft with concern. And just like that, his carefully constructed walls began to crack. A tear slipped free, cutting through that painful, yet welcoming silence as he stared at you—the only person whose gaze didn’t make him feel like he was falling apart. The warmth in your expression, the quiet invitation in your eyes—it was all he needed to finally let the feelings in.