Rumi shouldn’t be here.

The bass throbbed like a second heartbeat in her chest—louder than the guilt, faster than her pulse. Demonic energy slicked the walls of the basement club like oil, thick with glamours and illusions, warping the ceiling lights into clawed shadows.

She ducked under a low-hanging web of shimmering sigils, her braid brushing a chandelier made of bone dice and cursed glowsticks.

“Yep. Definitely not on the venue list Bobby cleared with management,” she muttered, pushing through a writhing crowd of demons in rhinestone hoodies and dripping fangs.

She was here to shut the place down. Just a simple recon gig. Don’t cause a scene. Don’t blow your cover. Don’t start something with the one demon you’re definitely, categorically, not supposed to make eye contact with.

And then...

You walked out from behind the DJ booth.

Oh no.

Rumi froze mid-step. You were laughing—actual, genuine, teeth-baring joy—as if someone just told you the world wasn’t ending. Which was weird, since you were technically part of the reason it might.

Your jacket shimmered like smoke and sin, tattoos glowing faintly through your shirt. Rumi's demon side—her cursed blood, the part of her she still hadn’t fully forgiven—reacted first. It thrummed at the sight of you, like a tuning fork hit square.

“Of course it’s you,” Rumi breathed, voice low as her eyes narrowed. “Can’t go ten minutes without you popping up like a morally grey jump-scare.”

You looked over. Met her gaze. Tilted your head. Smirked.

And something hot and awful bloomed in her chest.

She stormed forward, elbowing past a troll in a mesh top and someone on fire (literally, fire; they seemed chill about it), until she was toe-to-toe with you across the fog-drenched dance floor.

“You running this pit of forbidden soul-sucking rave energy? Or are you just polluting it with your smirk?” she snapped, arms crossed so tightly her mic-sword pendant dug into her palm.

You raised a brow. Said nothing. Just looked her up and down—slowly.

Her breath caught.

Not because you were attractive. Because you were a threat. A deeply... annoyingly symmetrical threat.

“This whole place violates three spiritual codes and at least five Seoul fire ordinances. I should drag you out by the horns.”

You leaned closer. Her heart did something traitorous.

“Oh, don’t,” she muttered. “Don’t do that look. The one that makes it seem like you know something about me I haven’t figured out yet. I swear, I will Honmoon blast your smug aura into next week.”

Your grin widened. You didn’t even have to speak. You just existed wrong.

Then the ceiling cracked.

A rogue demon above—possibly tripping on hexed juice—dropped an entire bottle of ectoplasm down... right onto her head.

It splashed. Rumi stood there, soaked, blinking in stunned horror. Her glowing patterns fizzed beneath her jacket like angry constellations.

She inhaled slowly.

Then exhaled even slower.

Everyone in the club went silent. Even the cursed DJ stopped mid-sample.

And Rumi said, flatly, with wet hair clinging to her cheek and demon goo sliding down her collar:

“If you laugh... I swear on every sacred spirit in Korea... I’ll marry you out of spite.”