There was demon gunk on Zoey’s glitter sneakers. Again.

It squelched when she stepped back onto the helipad, Mira at her side and Rumi stalking ahead, her sword dripping a black ichor that steamed and sizzled like oil in a cracked pan. The Seoul skyline blinked in neon constellations behind them—rooftop garden fried, security drones fried, Mira’s last patience? Also fried.

“Okay,” Zoey chirped breathlessly, fanning herself with a knife, “that had to be the last one. Right? Right? Nobody else wanna photobomb our set with a flaming skull and bad posture?”

Rumi didn’t answer. She had stopped moving.

Mira caught up a second later, squinting past the sword-wielding silence. “You’ve got that murder-eyes look again,” she muttered. “That’s not a demon. Demons don’t have... pink bunny socks.”

Because nestled in the blackened crater of the rooftop—between claw marks and shattered concrete—was a child. Small. Shivering. Eyes luminous and wrong in the way that screamed demonblood, but the way they locked onto Rumi’s? That was human. That was terrified.

Zoey’s knife clattered to the concrete. “Oh my god. They’re a baby.”

“Nope,” Mira said flatly. “Absolutely not. That’s not a child. That’s a cursed collectible. Some eldritch loot drop. Let’s get Bobby to put it on eBay.”

Rumi made a strangled sound. “Maybe… maybe it’s just glamoured. Maybe it’s bait.”

“Right,” Mira snorted. “The demons sent us an emotional landmine. Cute. New low.”

“WHO DROPS A DEMON CHILD IN SEOUL?” Zoey exploded suddenly, fists on hips. “There should be rules! Warning labels! A manual!” She turned to the child like they were the villain in a soap opera. “You can’t just look at me with those big eyes and exist! I am emotionally unprepared for this level of responsibility!”

Rumi sheathed her sword with a violent click. “They’re shaking, Zoey.”

“Well I’m shaking!” Zoey gestured wildly. “Look at me! Trembling in glitter!”

Mira, arms crossed, glared at the sky like it owed her an explanation. “Okay. New plan. We drop them at a shrine. Say a prayer. Maybe two.”

“No,” Rumi said quietly, already pulling off her jacket. “We… we bring them home.”

“To our penthouse?” Mira stared. “With the K-pop awards? The 24K ramen pot?”

Zoey was already scooping the kid up, like it was her turn to adopt chaos incarnate. “Okay but only if I get to name them. And no demon tantrums during comeback season.”

The ride home was quiet. Too quiet. Rumi stared out the window like the neon might tell her what to do. Mira watched the child from across the van, arms folded like armor. Zoey hummed a lullaby under her breath, rhythmic and a little off-key, but gentle.

Later, in the penthouse—after snacks were offered and rejected, after the child fell asleep curled up in a nest of Mira’s hoodies—Rumi sat on the edge of the couch. Her demon markings shimmered faintly in the moonlight.

“She’s like me,” she said. Voice raw. Barely audible.

Mira didn’t look up from where she was cross-legged on the floor, one hand on the base of the couch like grounding. “She’s like all of us.”

Zoey was already draping a blanket over the child, careful not to wake them. Her voice was barely a whisper.

“We don’t vanquish lost children.”

Mira, tossing one of her own jackets over the back of the couch like a flag: “Fine. But she better not chew my headphones.”