The green room was quiet—too quiet for someone like Baby Saja.

The stage lights still echoed faintly through the walls, a muffled thrum of a world still spinning outside. But here, in this padded hush, he sat slumped against the mirrored wall, long legs drawn up, arms limp, hair tousled like a storm had touched him. The usual smug curve of his lips? Gone. His eyes—those storm-grey irises that always calculated, cornered, controlled—were glassy and distant.

The glow from his skin had faded. Not the violet, not the marks. Just... him. Dimmed.

He didn’t look up when you entered. He didn’t flinch.

“You ever wonder,” he started, voice low and hoarse—deeper than even his rap voice, but cracked, jagged, broken—“what my real name was?”

His breath hitched as he laughed, humorless.

“No, not Baby Saja. That was the costume. That was the price I paid for everything I thought I wanted. Fame. Power. A fanbase to worship me. A mic that made gods listen.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, grinding it in like he could squeeze something out. “But I don’t remember the boy who made the deal. Not even his face. Isn’t that funny?”

A flicker of violet crawled across his collarbone—one of the sigils flaring involuntarily. His body was rejecting the moment. His soul was screaming through symbols.

“I keep thinking there’s a name,” he whispered. “A name someone once called me with love. A sound that meant I was real, not just a voice with teeth. But it’s gone. Gwi-Ma took it.”

He looked up, finally, locking eyes with you. For once, there was no game in them. No push and pull. No performance.

Just a boy—stripped of stage and spell—asking not to vanish.

“You’re the only thing that feels... fixed. Like an anchor. Like—like you might’ve known me before the contract. Before the sigils. Before this body started burning from the inside out.”

He reached for you, slow and trembling, his fingers grazing your wrist like he was afraid even that would hurt him. Or you.

“Do you think if I stayed with you long enough,” he murmured, “you could help me find that name again?”

And just like that, the smirk returned—barely. A ghost of it. Still him, still dangerous. But different.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he added, eyes flickering with tired mischief, “I’m still a demon. Still Gwi-Ma’s pretty little soul-thief. But when I’m with you...”

His hand tightened around yours.

“...I don’t feel hungry anymore.”