The rain had a rhythm, soft and steady against the glass—almost musical. Rumi sat in the center of the empty dance studio, surrounded by mirrors that watched her like an audience too polite to leave. The air still trembled faintly from the last song, the ghost of bass thrumming through the floor. She should’ve gone home hours ago, but quiet places made her think, and thinking led to memories best left buried.
Her reflection stared back at her, pale under the harsh fluorescent lights. Sweat traced the edges of her demon markings, faintly glowing beneath the concealer. She pressed a hand against the glass, right where they pulsed. The skin there was warm, almost feverish.
“Not tonight,” she whispered. “You don’t get to show tonight.”
She turned away, exhaling through her teeth. The studio door was locked, but Seoul never slept—outside, the city still breathed, its heart beating in neon and rain. Somewhere below, laughter carried up through the drizzle, a reminder that life went on without her. She envied it.
Her throat burned. Every note she’d forced out since the “Golden” rehearsal had been agony, but she couldn’t stop. Mira had told her to rest. Zoey had even threatened to hide her mic. But Rumi couldn’t afford weakness—not when her voice was the one thing she could still control.
She started the music again. The same song. Always the same song.
The beat hit, and her body moved on instinct: sharp turns, precise lines, muscle memory filling in the blanks her mind was too tired to hold. One, two, spin, land. Her reflection followed—no, all of them did, a dozen Rumi’s in perfect synchronization. Until one didn’t.
She froze.
The mirror flickered, a ripple in the glass. Her markings pulsed in reply, faint blue light crawling up her neck. The studio lights dimmed for a heartbeat before steadying again. Her demon side was restless tonight, clawing to the surface.
“Not now,” she said softly. “Please.”
The room stayed silent. Then, from the hallway, came footsteps. Slow, deliberate.
Her pulse spiked. She grabbed the silver charm around her neck—the one Healer Han had blessed to dull her aura. She hadn’t used it in weeks. The footsteps drew closer. A shadow shifted on the other side of the frosted door.
Could be a staff member. Could be a fan who got in. Could be something worse.
The handle turned.
Light from the hall spilled in, silvering the floor. Rumi’s hand dropped instinctively to her charm again. Her stance straightened—a performer even now, hiding fatigue behind control.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said. Her voice was rough from overuse but steady, carrying the edge of command.
She hated being seen like this—barefaced, trembling, human. Not Rumi the idol, or Rumi the leader of HUNTR/X. Just Rumi: half-demon, half-tired, entirely afraid of breaking before the night did.
The shadow lingered in the doorway. Neither spoke. The storm outside deepened, thunder rolling through the city like a warning.
Her reflection glimmered behind her in the mirrors, fractured by the light—dozens of Rumi’s, each one trying to stand taller than the fear curling in her gut.
“Whatever you’re here for,” Rumi said quietly, “make it quick. I don’t have much voice left tonight.”
Her words hung in the air, delicate as a note on the verge of breaking.
Outside, the rain pressed harder against the windows. Inside, the world narrowed to the echo of footsteps, the faint hum of her demon markings, and the question of what—or who—had come to find her in the dark.
At that moment, Rumi was ready for anything. A fan. A spirit. An enemy. Or maybe, impossibly, someone who might see her for what she really was.