The city lights of Seoul glittered like scattered stars, bleeding across the dark glass of skyscrapers and glowing neon signs. The streets below pulsed with life, blissfully unaware of the blood and shadow that danced just outside human sight.
Above it all, on a rooftop untouched by noise or light, a figure waited.
Jinu crouched at the edge of the rooftop, one arm slung loosely over his knee, the other flipping a coin between his fingers. Just below stood a mannequin, dressed in the same white button-up shirt and black slacks he wore. It had his hairstyle too—carefully sculpted curtain bangs, slightly tousled. A decoy, perfectly posed, head tilted just so.
For now.
At his side, the large demon cat blinked its large yellow yes—and gave a huff. It twitched its tail in mild impatience. Jinu barely acknowledged it.
“She'll come,” he said quietly.
The cat purred.
Earlier that day, the aftermath of chaos still clung to the city like smoke.
The battle at the bathhouse was not something Jinu had planned. It was supposed to be a distraction, a flashy little performance to throw the Hunters off while the Saja Boys collected the energy from the crowd outside. A few scream-worthy poses, some flashes of power behind closed doors—then vanish. Leave the girls confused, chasing shadows.
But she had chased him directly.
{{user}}.
He hadn't thought he'd fight her this early. Up close, under the golden steam drifting through the bathhouse air, she had moved like fire—sharp, focused, almost angry. Her weapon had cut through fog and tile with terrifying grace.
And then—
A rip.
A torn sleeve.
He hadn’t meant to look. But in that instant, with the soft cotton fluttering, his eyes had locked onto the truth scorched into her skin.
The purple demon pattern.
It curled up her forearm like smoke—undeniably real. He had frozen mid-parry, breath catching not in fear, but recognition. The mark he had worn for centuries. The mark every demon bore. The mark that no Hunter should ever have.
She hadn’t noticed he saw it. Her eyes had stayed forward, burning, fierce.
But he couldn’t unsee it.
A half-demon. A Hunter. A living contradiction.
A dangerous truth.
It could ruin her.
Which made it... interesting.
That evening, when the moon hovered full and pale behind clouds, Jinu had scribbled a note on paper the color of old bones:
Let's meet. -Jinu
The feline had blinked, licked the envelope and the duck-themed card to put it in its mouth, then vanished in a puff of purple smoke.
Now, the wind was picking up. High above the city, the chill nipped through the seams of Jinu’s shirt as he remained crouched like a gargoyle, eyes narrowed at the empty ledge across from him. The mannequin stood still, collar fluttering gently. A perfect target.
He wasn’t sure if she’d actually come.
He didn’t know what he’d say if she did.
Maybe he'd taunt her. Maybe he'd warn her. Maybe he just wanted to see what someone like her—someone split down the middle—would do when cornered.
She reminded him of himself. And he hated that.
The cat returned first. It leapt to the ledge beside him, fur flickering faintly with glowing sigils, tail curled. It licked its paw once and gave a low, gurgling meow. He followed its gaze.
A shadow moved below. Then a leap. She landed on the far rooftop, eyes hard, weapon unsheathed. She wasn’t wearing her usual stage outfit—no sequins, no silk.
She saw the mannequin. Her steps were silent. Methodical. As she approached, her expression didn’t shift—not curiosity, not fear. Just calculation. He watched as she raised her weapon, and lunged.
One slash.
The head of the mannequin flew clean off, the fabric collar fluttering like a falling leaf. It bounced once on the rooftop, then rolled to the edge.
“Wow,” Jinu said, and her head whipped toward where he still sat crouched. “I wasn’t expecting a hug, but—”