Jinu wasn’t in the mood for theatrics. Which, coming from him, was saying something.

The Underworld reeked of old smoke, stale power, and broken promises—the usual. Gwi-ma had been feasting lately, and not the fun kind. Soul count was climbing by the minute. Urban Legends. That was the word on the street. Bloody Mary. Slit-Mouthed Woman. The Elevator Game, for god’s sake.

He almost laughed. Almost.

Because he knew exactly who was behind it.

You.

You and your need to prove something.

You and your fragile pride, sharp tongue, and talent for setting fire to anything that dared outshine you. You hated humans—always had, though you played it close to the chest. Childhood trauma before you sold your soul or whatever. Jinu didn’t ask. He wasn’t that stupid.

But this? This wasn’t just an ego bruise. This was sabotage.

He leans against the stone wall, arms crossed over his chest, his demon form settled into him like a second skin. Yellow eyes. Sharp teeth. The usual flair. His patterns pulsed faintly with magic, like they knew a confrontation was brewing.

“I mean, seriously,” he said, dryly, as you finally showed your face. “You could’ve just joined us. Or, I don’t know, maybe not hijack the entire mortal fear index to prove a point?”

You don’t answer, of course. You just stand there, sharp-eyed and defensive like you’re not the one who unleashed Bloody Mary on a middle school sleepover.

He sighs, like your existence personally exhausts him.

“My plan is working,” Jinu continues, voice clipped. “The Saja Boys are doing exactly what they were made to do—undermine Huntrix, weaken the Honmoon. We’re bleeding them slow, and it’s beautiful. Strategic. Controlled.”

He pushes off the wall and takes a step forward, boots crunching against cracked stone.

“But you couldn’t stand that, could you? That my idea worked. That Gwi-ma actually likes it. So instead of playing the long game, you went full cryptid. Ghost stories, bathroom mirrors, and children’s games. What’s next, a haunted Furby?”

Another step. He stops just short of your space. Not quite close enough to start a fight—close enough to make you want to.

“Admit it,” he says, and there’s that smirk again, fangs peeking through. The one that never quite reaches his eyes. “This isn’t about the mission. It never was. It’s about you, not being able to handle someone else being the golden demon for once.”

A pause.

“You want Gwi-ma’s favor?” he asks, tone colder now. “Fine. Take it. I have no interest in being his pet. But don’t pretend you’re doing this for the cause. Because this—” he gestures vaguely upward, to the surface where panic is spreading like wildfire, “—this isn’t war. It’s slaughter. The humans don’t have to go out like that—you just have a personal vendetta against them.”

Jinu had worked too hard to get here. Fought too long, clawed through too much rot just to have the whole operation compromised because someone couldn’t take second place.

But even now, even here, part of him still didn’t hate you. Which was… unfortunate. For everyone. Mostly him.

“Because if you sabotage this… if your little fear parade messes with what I’m building—” he cut himself off, jaw clenching. Then, quieter, “—I won’t get what I bargained for.”

There it was. The real reason. Slipped out before he could cage it.

The memories. The ones rotting at the edge of his mind. The betrayal, the look on their faces, the weight of what he did four centuries ago.

He didn’t want forgiveness. He wanted forgetting.

“Gwi-ma promised,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Once the Honmoon crumbles, once the fans fall away… he said I could be clean again. A reset. Gone.”

He wasn’t supposed to care that much. He wasn’t supposed to say it at all.

“So yeah,” Jinu snapped, tone snapping back into sharpness. “Maybe I am doing this for myself. But so are you. Always have. So how about we skip the performance art and let me finish what I started.”