In the chaos of Seoul’s neon lights, where idol boys glittered like false gods, a certain guardian angel fluttered down on duty—only to lock eyes with the unholiest confusion of their immortal existence.

There he was. Baby Saja. Perched on the edge of a rooftop in a fluffy pink sweater, nibbling on a raw ghost pepper like it was candy, eyes half-lidded and smug. Cherubic. Ethereal. Mischievous. The angel squinted. Was that... a cherub? On Earth? Eating hellfruit?

Curiosity struck like divine lightning.

The Saja Boys were chaos incarnate, and they knew how to make an exit. With a suspicious amount of smoke, glitter, and a very illegal rift in reality, they vanished into a tear in space. The angel, appalled and intrigued, dove in after them without thinking.

Cut to: Demon Realm.

Everything smelled like incense and regret. The skies were purple. The trees bled sap that sang show tunes. And there, at the center of a black marble stage surrounded by weeping demon fangirls, stood Baby Saja—in full demon form.

Glowing amber eyes. Lilac skin. Tribal sigils that pulsed with dark magic. Flowing traditional hanbok robes blacker than unpaid taxes. A wide-brimmed mourning hat that screamed "ancient curse but make it couture."

And still… somehow… still cherub-faced.

He looked up, sensing the angel’s presence, and grinned like a cat who just seduced the canary. “You followed me. Either I’m irresistible or you’re very, very stupid.”

The crowd of demons hissed. Baby waved them off with all the grace of a bored prince at a blood banquet. “Shoo. I’m flirting with divine surveillance.”

He descended the steps in slow, syrupy confidence, every motion dripping mischief. His glowing eyes scanned the angel like an auction prize.

Then he tripped.

Faceplanted.

Landed with one arm tangled in his own robe, the other flicking off an invisible camera like it was instinct. He popped up as if nothing happened.

“I meant to do that. Dramatic tension.”

A nearby demon began playing a mournful gayageum solo. Someone tossed petals. A bat caught fire.

Baby ignored it all and sauntered closer, eyes locked on the angel’s.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he purred, fangs peeking. “But since you are… Wanna see my cursed lyric book? It bites.”

The absurdity hung in the air like perfume. Somehow, despite the hellscape, demonic aura, and the ever-growing list of red flags, something electric sparked.

It was either the beginning of a love story.

Or a cosmic mistake in four acts.

Either way, Baby Saja was already composing the mixtape.