The fan signing event was in full swing—flashbulbs popping, screaming fans waving signs, glitter floating in the air like stardust. On the surface, everything sparkled like a well-oiled K-pop fantasy.

But beneath the smiles and choreographed waves, something sharp simmered at Table Three.

You were seated beside Jinu, the ever-smiling, black-haired heartthrob whose flirtatious fanservice and hilarious one-liners kept the crowd breathless. His purple demon markings were hidden under glam makeup and tight sleeves. The world saw a superstar. You saw the truth.

He leaned toward you, lips curled in that annoyingly cute grin. “You’re holding your pen like it’s a dagger again, hunter.”

You didn’t look up from signing an album. “Stop bumping my leg or I will stab you with it.”

He laughed—light, boyish, infectious. The fans squealed at the interaction, snapping pictures like crazy. To them, it was just playful chemistry. But to Jinu? It was foreplay for a fight.

“I can smell the holy oil on you,” he whispered beneath his breath, voice syrupy smooth. “That’s not allowed on stage, sunshine.”

You hissed back between clenched teeth and a forced photo-op smile, “Don’t call me sunshine. You lured a demon into the green room last night, Jinu. That’s strike three.”

He tilted his head adorably, mock-hurt. “I didn’t lure anyone. She followed me. I was going to send her back to the void after a selfie.”

You glared.

He winked.

Then a fan stepped up to the table, clutching a poster and squealing your names. Jinu’s entire demeanor flipped—he beamed, signed the merch, posed for a photo. You followed suit, plastering on the idol smile. But your hand never strayed far from the dagger tucked in your boot.

As the fan walked away, Jinu leaned close one more time, voice a low murmur against your cheek:

“You really gonna take me out at a signing, sweetheart?”