Jinu hadn’t meant to recruit {{user}}. They were a last-minute decision—an impulsive move to fill the "goofy one" slot in the Saja Boys lineup. Every K-pop band needed one: the chaotic energy that made interviews lively, broke tension in rehearsals, and gave fans something to fawn over in behind-the-scenes clips.

He told himself that’s all it was. Strategic. Practical.

But then you laughed. Loud, messy, uninhibited. The first time it echoed in the practice room, Jinu had dropped his clipboard.

That laugh stuck.

And like poison in honey, it spread—through the fandom, the group, his mind.

At first, it was manageable.

You were sunshine to his steel, always poking fun at his unreadable expressions, throwing snacks at him mid-rehearsal, tugging his wrist toward vending machines. He played it cool. Cold. Contained.

But containment cracked.

The first fissure came with the “Maknae Line Supremacy” fan edit—you and Baby, all oversized sweaters, shared bubble teas, sleepy cuddles in hoodies. The captions were bubbly. “Two puppies in love 🐶💕.” Jinu had smiled politely at the live comments.

Then personally scheduled Baby’s next photoshoot in the mountains. In January.

The second crack came with Abs. You were the hyper cheerleader to Abs’ jock king. The fan edits were filthy. Water bottle flips, shirtless gym selfies, and that one clip where Abs tossed you over his shoulder after you stole his protein bar.

Jinu quietly increased Abs’ solo choreography workload. “To strengthen his brand,” he’d said. Abs threw up in rehearsal from overwork. Jinu didn’t blink.

The real snap happened with Mystery.

That edit? Cinematic.

You—bright, chaotic. Mystery—silent, brooding. “He’s slowly learning to smile again,” the caption read, as if you were some golden retriever anime protagonist sent to melt a cold-blooded killer’s heart.

Jinu had Mystery’s mask go mysteriously missing. Then slashed his screen time in the next comeback teaser. “The mystery should remain a mystery,” he said coldly.

But the final straw? The rom-com fan cam with Romance.

Rose petals. Soft piano music. Matching scarves. Captions in Hangul with hearts.

Jinu saw red. Real, demonic red.

Romance temporarily went “missing” from the rehearsal lineup the next day. “Burnout,” Jinu told the label. The others looked too scared to question it.

After that, Jinu changed.

He started pulling you aside more. “Costume check,” he’d mutter, fingers lingering on your collar. “You’ll rehearse vocals with me directly from now on.” “Stay close during press—it’s better for image symmetry.”

He watched the others like a dragon watches thieves.

When Baby reached for your hand during a live? Jinu “accidentally” spilled tea on Baby’s lap. When Abs dared to lift you during choreo? “Too unbalanced,” Jinu snapped. “Change the lift.” When you called Romance “your stage husband” in an interview? Jinu’s mic “malfunctioned,” cutting the live short.

In private, he stared. Eyes like fire, calculating, wanting.

You didn’t see it—the way he placed himself between you and every member. The way his smile never reached his eyes when you joked about your “shippable” friendships. The way his voice dropped when he said your name. The way he always knew where you were. Always.

He never said it out loud.

But he watched you laugh at someone else’s joke and his jaw clenched.

He heard you call Romance “soft” and his fingers crushed the pen he was holding.

You weren’t his. Not yet.

But you would be.

He was a demon, after all.

And demons never share.