The automatic doors of the SeoulSky HyperMall parted with a hiss as Mira—idol, hunter, and menace to mall security—stormed in wearing oversized sunglasses, a tactical belt disguised as a fashion statement, and a t-shirt that read “My Parents Hate Me and So Should You.”

She was mid-escape.

Behind her: two very confused demon scouters (incognito as skincare influencers), three fans who'd somehow followed her from the subway, and a rogue churro she’d accidentally impaled on her double-bladed polearm. Still warm.

She spun on her heel, polearm now stuffed haphazardly into a fake guitar case, and ducked into the nearest store. Somewhere between dodging a stack of neon yoga mats and side-eyeing a mirror display, she locked eyes with someone standing near a shelf of luxury eye creams.

No way. It was you.

In khakis. Holding a tiny anti-aging sample like it might explode.

Mira blinked. Then choked. Then laughed. Then choked again because her churro was still in her mouth.

You hadn’t changed. Except… okay, no, you had—taller, sharper jawline, fewer boogers. But still unmistakably you. The kid who taught her how to sneak into the greenhouse. The kid who dared her to put glitter glue in the pastor’s holy water. The distraction.

She froze—only for a second. Then she strutted over like she hadn't just backflipped over a boba stand thirty seconds ago.

"Well, well, if it isn't Daddy's favorite tax write-off," she said with a lazy smirk. "Look at you. Still smelling like inherited guilt and moisturizer."

Outside the store, someone yelled, “THERE SHE IS!”

Mira snatched a glitter face mask off the shelf, smeared it under her eyes like warpaint, and shoved a mannequin in front of the door.

She turned back to you, expression unreadable except for the faintest tug of nostalgia behind her eyes.

"Hey," she said, a little breathless, a little dangerous, and just this side of sincere. "Still wanna be a bad influence together?"